One Last War
by Dirty Reid
Summary: After years of peace, the Dragonborn must rise once again to face a threat to all of Nirn, this time originating from Westeros. On her quest, she shall make new allies and enemies, do battle with sword, magick and wit, and ultimately decide the fate of every man, mer and beast-person that is and ever will be.
1. Grave Tidings (edited)

**One Last War**

**By: Dirty Reid**

**Chapter 1: Grave Tidings**

**Fandoms: A Song of Ice and Fire; the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim**

* * *

"... _Dovahkiin..._!"

The single word, Shouted from Tamriel's highest mountain, echoed across Falkreath Hold, bypassed the Jerall Mountains, swept across the Heartlands and reverberated off the many walls of the Imperial City. It finally found its way through an open window near the apex of the monolithic building that was the Imperial Palace. The window led to a lavishly decorated bedroom, and from the bed with enough blankets and pillows to keep a giant comfortable, a pair of green, almond-shaped eyes slowly opened.

_I know those voices_, thought Hippolyta Septim I, Empress of Tamriel and Slayer of Alduin, etcetera. Amongst her closest friends and counsel, she humourously referred to herself as 'She-who-has-too-many-titles'. With a swift yawn, she rose from her expansive bed and reached for the silk robe hanging nearby. As she draped the thin garment about her willowy shoulders and tied it at her waist to shield her naked body from the mild draught of First Seed's pre-dawn, she leaned out the window and looked north. Across the jagged caps of the Jerall Mountains, just barely visible from her chambers atop the Palace, she could still spot the raging clouds that perpetually capped the Throat of the World. It was from the monastery atop this great peak that the Greybeards, wise old practitioners of the Way of the Voice, once again cried out for the Dragonborn, requesting her presence. _What could they want this time, I wonder_. She mused. The hermits had called for her only once before, just after she struck down the dragon Mirmulnir and devoured his soul, subsequently discovering her status as Dragonborn, a legendary warrior blessed with the soul of a wyvern and access to the oldest of magicks, the Thu'um. The rest, they say, is history. Now it seemed the Empress was to embark upon yet another epic journey that would shake Nirn to its bones.

Despite the early hour, Hippolyta knew that if she did not begin preparing for her long-awaited return to Skyrim immediately, she would be bogged down by the never ending tedium that seemed to appear like weeds whenever she was close to making a decision. Sighing, she made for the door to her chambers, inlaid with a silver dragon. As Hippolyta opened one of the doors, one of the guards with the same symbol emblazoned on his chest stationed at her door turned to peer into the room. Upon seeing his Empress in her current state of dress, his eyes immediately shot up to meet hers with great intensity. Hippolyta's pouty lips momentarily twitched up into an amused grin.

"Y-your Excellency!" He blurted out just a little too loudly. "How may this one be of service?" He asked, striped and furry tail waving about nervously.

"Peace, child." She said in a low, smoky voice that had soothed countless nerves over the course of her rule. "Would you inform my eldest to meet me in my solarium please? And you," She shifted her attention to the second guard, who snapped to attention stiffly. "If the cooks have begun preparing breakfast, kindly have them bring a platter up for us."

"Of course, Your Excellency." She affirmed before marching swiftly off, her Khajiit companion hot on her heels. With her orders given, Hippolyta returned to her room to dress, all the while wondering what exactly the old hermits would have to tell her this time.

* * *

"Mother?"

Hippolyta turned her head and smiled softly as her firstborn daughter entered her solarium. The pale blue glow of the mushrooms she used for crafting potions mingled with the orbs of pure light hovering above sconces in the wall, illuminating the younger woman's face, so like her mother's, but softened by the influence of her father. Her light green dress was overshadowed by a cloak to ward off the chill in the infant spring air. Unlike her daughter who had lived in Cyrodiil for most of her life, Hippolyta had spent years in the harshest of environments, and remained unfazed by the small changes in the Imperial City's weather.

"Ariadne, my little sweetroll." She greeted warmly, using a childhood pet name as she rose from her chair to envelop her daughter in a hug. "Sit, please. Let us enjoy ourselves for a while." She returned to her seat and gestured at the expansive silver platter brought out by a servant moments ago. Cuts of fruit from the jungles of Elseweyr, fresh juices from the West Weald, warm bread and sausages and cheese, all capped off with a flagon of Altmeri featherwine, a light spirit generally enjoyed with breakfast or by youth.

Over the next half hour, Hippolyta and Ariadne went back and forth with questions and answers about the happenings in their lives. As Empress, the many demands associated with governing Tamriel left little time for Hippolyta to spend with her children, hence her greater interest in Ariadne's life. While her daughter was being groomed to eventually take up the mantle of Empress, she was also pursuing a mastery of the Restoration school. The pursuit was a reflection of Ariadne's gentle soul, Hippolyta had previously deduced, a feeling of pride enveloping her like a blanket. While in the early days of Ariadne's study she had personally taught her, her daughter's incredible grasp of magick owing to her Breton heritage had quickly surpassed the Empress' not unimpressive repertoire of Restoration spells. She was currently apprenticing under Janee-Shon, an Argonian priest of Arkay when not being tutored in the political arts.

As the sun broke the horizon and she finished telling her mother a rather humorous story about one of their patients and the flagon of featherwine began to run dry, Ariadne swallowed a bite of fruit. "It is good to spend some quality time with you mother, but I know that there is something you must tell me. You would not have sought me out so early elsewise." She stated. Hippolyta lowered her gaze and smiled a little.

"Alas, you are right, but this could be the last time we see each other for a while." She admitted resignedly. Ariadne blinked but said nothing. "Last night, the Greybeards once again called for me." That caused Ariadne's thin eyebrows to rise.

"For what, I cannot fathom. What I do know is that while I answer their summons, you shall have a chance to put all you have learned to the test by sitting the Ruby Throne in my absence." She said. Ariadne looked hesitant.

"How long will you be gone?" She asked.

"To travel to Skyrim and answer the summons? Perhaps a little more than a week, if I am to take the train. For my quest? Even the Greybeards cannot know such things." She answered. The train she referred to was a recent and groundbreaking invention. For years previously, a team of scholars and builders had been researching Dwemer automata with the hopes of being able to create their own. While they had failed to divine the animation process that had disappeared with the dwarves, they had conceived the idea for a transportation device that ran using steam-powered pistons to turn a set of wheels and propel it along a set of tracks, much like the Dwemer creations that still walked ruins all across Tamriel. When they had presented the idea to Hippolyta, along with plans to build tracks all throughout Tamriel to allow for rapid transport of goods and people, she had quickly seen the benefits of such a device and granted them both her blessing and funds to complete their project. As of the present day, Cyrodiil served as the main hub with rails reaching into the corners of every province, save Black Marsh, whose terrain had been giving the builders fits for over a year now, and the volatile wasteland surrounding Vvardenfell.

"At least a week as acting Empress..." Ariadne muttered. "I suppose I could handle that."

Sensing her hesitance at being tasked with such responsibility, Hippolyta got out of her chair and stepped towards Ariadne. "None of that now, sweetroll. Come here." She opened her arms and Ariadne glided into another embrace. As her daughter rested her head against her bosom, Hippolyta kissed her forehead and stroked her three foot braid, several shades darker than her own wheat golden locks that fell midway down her back.

"I have nothing less than complete faith in you, Ariadne. Your mind is sharp, your judgment is sound, and the dragon blood runs as strong in you as it does me." She assured softly. Hippolyta gently pushed Ariadne's chin up so she could look into her brown and green-speckled eyes. While quite tall at five feet and eleven inches, Ariadne's Breton blood guaranteed she would never reach anywhere close to her mother's height of exactly seven feet.

"I know you can do this, my little sweetroll. You just need to have a little faith in yourself." Something that Ariadne had always been a little short on. "Can you do that for me?" She asked. Seeing the love swimming in her mother's eyes brought a joyous smile to Ariadne's face.

"... Alright." She acquiesced. "I will try." Hippolyta smiled.

"That's my girl." She whispered, squeezing her daughter just a little tighter. "Now we must prepare. Would you collect Mirabelle, Earynwe and Casiim so I may say goodbye to them as well? I have a few things I must collect before I go." She requested. Ariadne nodded.

"Of course, Mother." She affirmed, standing on her tiptoes to try and give Hippolyta a kiss on her very high cheek. With a small laugh, the Empress crouched so her daughter's lips could meet her cheek. "I love you." She said.

"I love you too." Ariadne chirped before skipping off.

* * *

By the time the sun had rose above the walls surrounding the Imperial City and its citizens had awoke, Hippolyta stood ready at the train house, wrapped in a midnight blue dress and a leather belt with nine white stars around her waist, representing each of the Divines. Attached to her belt was the sheath holding her dragon bone bastard sword, Freedom. It was a very old blade; one she had carried from the Sack of the Thalmor Embassy up to the Battle for Alinor, the final confrontation between the third Aldmeri Dominion, the Imperial Legion and Hippolyta's brainchild, the Free Army of Tamriel. On her hands and around her neck rested a silver and ruby necklace and two silver rings on each index finger, one with an inlaid emerald and one with a sapphire. Their inlaid jewels identified whether they bolstered Hippolyta's health, magicka reserves or stamina, and the regeneration of such. Her dress was enchanted as well, dulling the effects of hostile spells and allotting more power for blows with her sword. Her knee-high boots dampened shock and frost spells, and the silver and ruby circlet on her head would quench any fire. She had a thick cloak draped over her shoulders as an additional shield against the ferocious winds of High Hrothgar. At the entrance to the private car reserved exclusively for the Empress and her company, a Bosmer and an Orsimer watched Hippolyta intently. The Bosmer held all the hallmarks of a ranger: A set of boiled leather armour, a hood, an elvish bow and arrows, and a simple steel dagger at his belt. The Orsimer wore a full set of her people's characteristic, spiky green plate mail and hung an equally green war axe on her belt. Both had a black velvet half-cape draped over their non-dominant arms, a shield outlining a crown embroidered in golden thread.

The low-ranking Legion soldiers milling about chanced glances at them out of curiosity. The officers' eyes were more wary. The varied reactions stemmed from ignorance and awareness about who the two were, and what exactly their capes signified: They were members of Hippolyta Septim's Praetorian Guard.

The Legionnaires were not privy to the reason for the Praetorians' presence, as the elite soldiers answered only to the Empress. But judging by their destination, they had a fairly decent idea. Even to this day, dragons roamed Skyrim's skies, and had begun to expand beyond the Jerall, the Velothi and the Druadach Mountains. Those that strayed were often less than friendly, or had returned from a long trip to Akavir (theoretically) with one or more younglings, as noted by Imperial scouts. Hippolyta was taking no chances, and to bolster the forty Legionnaires that would be accompanying her, saw fit to add her personal guard to their numbers.

The Empress had turned to busying herself by bidding farewell to her children. Ariadne stood back a step, maintaining the stoicism often required of the Empress of Tamriel, even if it was only as acting Empress. Hippolyta was focused now on Casiim, her youngest, and her son. He shared her ears- albeit less prominently- and some of her height, but the rest of his appearance was that of his father Nassan. Every time she looked at him, whether it be his short black ponytail, the shadow of a beard on his jaw or his beetle black eyes, she saw her former husband looking back at her. The two had met when Hippolyta had come to Hammerfell to engage in diplomatic talks with the king, in hopes of bringing them back into the fold of the Empire. She had slipped her guards and entered the fighting pits to relieve some stress, and had eventually crossed fists with Nassan. The less said about that night the better, but Hippolyta had never been a gracious loser. The Redguard had sought her out and, impressed by his gumption, Hippolyta had quelled her irritation and replaced it with interest. The negotiations had lasted for months, and in that time, the Empress had become quite smitten with Nassan. With some clever word-work, Hippolyta and her diplomats had enticed Hammerfell back to the Empire. Giddy at her success, she had sought out Nassan and asked him if he would personally help her cement the relationship between the Empire and Hammerfell by marrying her. Initially shocked, but buoyed by her confession of love, Nassan had said yes. Three months after returning to the Imperial City, Nassan, a man who came from a modest and hard-working background was officially recognized as the second Emperor Consort of Hippolyta Septim I. Almost nine years to the day after their wedding, Casiim was brought into the world.

Even Casiim's personality mirrored his father's. He did not take life too seriously, "Because if you cannot stop and laugh at life every now and then, you have not lived at all." He said once. He used his humour to his advantage in battle, which happened quite often, as he had just joined the Legion with the intent of becoming a General. He had accepted from an early age that as the last in line for the Ruby Throne, he would likely be old and grey before he could wear the crown of Emperor. Hence his ambition of ascending to a no less respected position. But even with his hard exterior, his prowess and his training, he was still a mummy's boy, and he knew he had his mother wrapped around his little finger.

"Be careful mother, please?" He bade her with a hug. Hippolyta smiled.

"Of course, dear." She cooed in reply. "Be strong for me; now more than ever, you are the man of the house, understand?" She asked. She had been calling him that for a very long time, ever since his father passed away. He nodded.

"I will. Someone has to kill the spiders in the castle while you're gone." He japed. Hippolyta laughed musically.

"Don't let the girls hear you say that." She whispered as she kissed his forehead and told him she loved him. From Casiim, she turned her attention to Mirabelle, her second daughter. Named after the mage who had perished in the Eye of Magnus Crisis, Mirabelle's Breton heritage was almost completely uninfluenced by Hippolyta's blood. Mousy brown hair that fell to her shoulders and a heart-shaped face would fool anyone into believing she could not be a royal child. Only her height and her verdant eyes gave clues as to her relation to the Empress. Mirabelle was considered the wild child, a fact her father and Hippolyta's first husband Gallifrey noted when at a tender fourteen months she escaped her nursery and began to wander the Palace, crying out for 'Ma' and 'Da'. She was gifted, grasping, and ruled by passion, an attitude that often got her into trouble. Hippolyta had lost count of how many times Mirabelle had gotten into fights with other children, made an outburst during meetings with the Elder Council, or burned something down after a particularly grueling lesson on the many schools of magick. But when she was not in the throes of extreme emotion, Mirabelle was bubblier than a bath half full of soap. Her outlet for her passion was jewel crafting. To this day, Hippolyta still wore the lumpy and warped silver bracelet Mirabelle had made her for her day of birth. Mirabelle's latest project was perched on her head: A circlet made from gold, quicksilver and ebony, winding about like a rope. The three linked metals separated and flared up at the front, twisting into three skyward dragon heads, each with their mouths open in a roar.

"Be safe Mama." Mirabelle bade her as she snuggled into Hippolyta's embrace. "You still have so much to teach me." She said. Hippolyta kissed her forehead and looked down with a smile.

"Oh? And what should I teach you that you cannot learn yourself little bell?" She asked. Mirabelle let a knowing smirk creep up her face.

"What all dragons can do, Mama." She answered. Hippolyta's easy smile dropped a little as _this_ conversation started again.

"We have been over this, Mirabelle." She said with the air of one who had tired of saying the same thing over and over again. "You shall learn my Thu'um once you have reigned in that temper of yours." She had started asking to be taught the oldest of magicks quite some time ago after listening to one too many stories told by tactless or drunken Legionnaires. And every time she was denied the knowledge, she threw a tantrum. Hippolyta privately doubted that Mirabelle would reach a level of maturity where she would be ready to wield such a power until she was as old as her mother.

"But without the rest, it's practically useless! Watch!" She exclaimed and turned to face an empty spot on the platform, surprising everyone with what happened next.

"_Fus_!"

Hippolyta managed to limit her reaction to parting her lips a margin as a blue wave of energy erupted from her daughter's mouth. It barreled forward about ten metres before fading into nothingness. The deep thrum of the no less thunderous Thu'um drew he attention of every single set of eyes in the station. Only the quiet hiss of steam filled the warm air.

Hippolyta recovered her voice quickly enough. "If you learned the first Word on your own, I suppose there is little that can stop you from learning the rest." She sighed. "Very well. I shall teach you the rest of that Shout Mirabelle, _but_," she held up a finger as her daughter started to look excited. "Only if you promise me to _never_ use it unless absolutely necessary, and _only_ after you prove to me that you can mind your temper by refraining from any outbursts until the next day of your birth." She stated. Mirabelle's expression rapidly went from excited to crestfallen.

"My next- but that's almost a year away!" She protested. Hippolyta nodded.

"I know you better than anyone else little bell, and with that, I know your love of knowledge will give you the strength to push through this challenge." She replied with a few pats on Mirabelle's cheek that anyone bold enough to say anything would call patronising. The young jewel crafter made no response, but stuck her bottom lip out in a childish pout. Hippolyta's only response was to laugh as she made to bid farewell to her third daughter.

Of the three of them, Earynwe looked the most like her mother. Tall, willowy, fair of hair, green of eye and sharp of pale golden visage, Hippolyta's youngest daughter was the portrait of a classic beauty. What set her apart was the absence of the arrogant nature often present in her mother's people. In its place was an attitude so demure, so _shy_, that oftentimes Earynwe would not be noticed until later when attending some sort of function. Anything above a moderate amount of attention would set her stuttering and have her looking away with a blush, and even among her family she did not talk much. When she _did_ speak, it was a soft, musical sound that was akin to a dollop of honey for the ears. The loveliness of her voice was only matched by her skill with a myriad of musical instruments and devotion to the literary arts. The bard she had begun apprenticing under had actually come to the Empress and said that he had never had a pupil so talented that he was unsure of whether or not he could teach her anything. A mere year after starting her musical tutoring, Earynwe had wrote a scherzo for a string quintet. It was a very vibrating piece, setting fire to the nerves of anyone who heard it and sending many hearts a-flutter. In the years since her first piece, she had written a five-theme sonata for a wind quartet, two short concertos, and she had once said that she was working on a symphony for a full orchestra. What point she was at in its completion was unknown, as Earynwe remained unusually tight-lipped about her work, even for her. The shy young girl waited patiently for her mother to envelop her in a hug. Her pure white dress shimmered like waves on a pond stirred by a gentle breeze as she hugged Hippolyta with a smile on her face. The gold rings piercing her ears rubbed against her mother's skin, and the baubles in the two small braids falling over her shoulders jingled merrily.

"Behave yourself while I'm gone, alright my little bird?" Hippolyta asked. Asking demure little Earynwe to behave herself was something of a joke, as the girl- who was little more than a teenager developmentally- was the least likely to do anything to draw attention to herself. Nonetheless, Earynwe smiled and nodded.

"I love you, mummy." She said quietly. "Kynareth guide your path."

"I love you too, Earynwe." Hippolyta cooed, kissing both of Earynwe's cheeks and smiling amusedly as her youngest daughter blushed. As she reared up to her full height, the kind and gentle mother faded from Hippolyta's face as the iron curtain of the Empress slammed down to replace it.

"Legionnaires!" She barked, her voice carrying all through the station. Every soldier wearing the sigil of the Empire snapped to attention, the thunder of leather and steel boots a deep and terrifying drumbeat to anyone who would dare stand against the Dragonborn's might. "Roll out!" She shouted. The forty soldiers quickly divided into two groups and filed into their cars two at a time. Hippolyta quickly strode past her Orsimer and Bosmer Praetorians, who fell into step behind her. The Orsimer pulled the lever on the inside of the car, causing the doors to hiss as they closed. In minutes, great engines began to grind and hiss. The train lurched once and slowly began to creep forward. As the four Septim children waved goodbye and the great steam locomotive began to pick up speed, Hippolyta retreated into herself and let her mind wander. Her silent speculation continued as the train barreled north, passing villages, rivers and mountains alike. After three days, she opened the car doors and inhaled deeply, the frosty air of Whiterun Hold filling her lungs.

At long last Ysmir, the Dragon of the North, had returned to Skyrim.

* * *

"Your Excellency?" asked Darioth, Hippolyta's Bosmer Praetorian. He and Zhaga gra-Torz had been quietly taking in the fabled monastery of the Greybeards since their arrival several hours ago. The Empress had warned them that the elderly hermits may not speak to them, for their mastery of the Voice dwarfed even hers. Only Master Balfryn had bade them greeting, and even he said it in no more than a whisper. Masters Vuldak, Ursmar, Jalof and Gjukar had remained silent. Despite that, the old men had been quite welcoming, offering them both fish steaks and grilled leeks along with a cup of ale apiece. While each Praetorian was expected to ignore such things as hunger and fatigue, as they were often subjected to such tests in their line of work, none would turn down an offered drink and warm food. During their small meal, the two guards had indulged their curiosity and asked Balfryn half a handful of questions. Things like how long he had been on the Throat of the World, who he had been before he had begun learning the Way, and other superfluous questions. They had run out of questions they dared to broach half an hour in, and had amused themselves with any books they had not perused from the monks' extensive library. Another hour had gone past before the iron doors at the rear of the monastery groaned open. Darioth had hastily put down _The Lusty Argonian Maid Collection _and rose to stand at attention. Hippolyta looked rather pensive, and did not respond to his address at first. It took a moment, but she eventually looked up with a few blinks.

"Apologies, Darioth. My master's words often warrant much pondering, and this time was no different. What were you saying?" She asked politely. Her warmth made the Bosmer inordinately proud to serve as her personal guard. She treated each of her Praetorians as a friend, and made a point to learn each of their names; something few other nobles took the time or energy to do, if any at all.

"I was simply concerned, Your Excellency. You seem... troubled. Was this master of yours' message one of grave tidings?" He asked. Mouth in a grim line, Hippolyta nodded.

"But I shall say nothing until we return to Cyrodiil. I have no desire to repeat myself." She said, jerking her head towards the monastery's front door. As Darioth and Zhaga marched for the exit, Hippolyta bowed to the five assembled monks.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Masters." She said with a small smile.

"Of course, Dragonborn." Balfryn replied with a smile, overshadowed somewhat by his large beard. "I pray that your Voice will be received by all who must hear it."

"As do I." She replied before addressing all five of the aged hermits. "_Su'um ahrk morah, onik julle_." She intoned with another bow.

"_Su'um ahrk morah, Dovahkiin_." Balfryn spoke for his companions who, like the Greybeards of yesteryear that Hippolyta had first met, could not limit the power in their voices to speak normally. With one last small smile, Hippolyta turned in a wave of black and blue silk and fur to glide to the exit of High Hrothgar. Darioth and Zhaga waited half a step before following their Empress out the monastery.

The sight that greeted them was highly unusual, and was enough to awaken the smallest vestige of terror in the hearts of the Praetorian guards. Eight fully grown dragons perched on the stones around the plateau of the Throat of the World, their deep and rumbling breaths sounding akin to some Dwemer engine. Fifteen beady yellow, orange and red eyes focused on the three mortals, matched by the Empress and her guards' six, neither side willing to end the staring contest. It was the dragons who broke the silence. One among them with amethyst scales, immense curved horns, off-white wings and a number of chipped fangs took two booming steps forward and regarded Hippolyta, its snout nearly touching her. As its nostrils flared with an intake of air, Hippolyta regarded the dragon's rounded spines, multitude of scars and compound pupils. This dragon was very, very old; perhaps not quite the same age as Paarthurnax, but she was fairly sure that its age numbered in the thousands.

"_Drem yol lok_, _Dovahkiin._" It said in a surprisingly soft and smooth voice. "_Paarthurnax-thuri laan mu aam hin grahborodde_." It said while turning its head to its brethren.

Burgeoned with curiosity, Zhaga voiced a question. "What did it say, Your Excellency?" She asked. As Hippolyta's ears twitched, a gesture used among elves to signify that a speaker had been heard, the purple dragon moved its gaze to the orc woman.

"Master Paarthurnax has asked that we serve as the _Dovahkiin_'s battlewagons on her quest." It repeated in the Common Tongue, referring to the role Hippolyta had had the dragons who had followed her fill during the Tamrielic Civil War. Her decades of training allowed Zhaga to limit her reaction to a small nod.

"And I thank you for your compliance, _wuth gein_. Might you trust me with your name?" She asked in a tone slathered with politeness, knowing she was treading on uneven ground. A dragon's name was not something given freely, after all. Only those they considered equal or superior were granted the right to know, and though she was Dragonborn, Hippolyta's understanding of her reputation amongst the general draconic populous had been clouded for quite some time.

"I shall." The purple dragon affirmed with a small bob of his wagon-sized head. "I am Ziiaakkrin, the Ferrier of Lost Souls, and I am the leader of your chosen eight." Ziiaakkrin proclaimed.

"I am Lotstrunnah, the Furious Storm." The orange and blue, flattened-looking dragon stated in a surprisingly high voice for one of its species. _A female dragon_. She deduced with some interest.

"_Zu'u _Vokunnirbo, the Shadow Hunter." Said the black-skinned, snake-like dragon huddled in the shadow of a large stone. Hippolyta was again struck by interest; long before she had taken up the mantle of Empress, she had only encountered the snake-like dragons on the Dunmer-controlled island of Solstheim. Then again, word on the dragons' spreading from their grave sites was highly intermittent, even for Hippolyta's extensive network of informants.

"I am Yuvondein, the Keeper of Gold." Rumbled the snow white drake with wickedly pointed spines and a missing eye. His title made Hippolyta cock an eyebrow.

"'The Keeper of Gold', you say." She repeated slowly. "I do not recall you looking as you do when we first met in battle." She said as an opener. Zhaga and Darioth were now listening very intently; Hippolyta rarely spoke of her endeavours hunting dragons when she was still a youth.

If he felt insulted at her barb, Yuvondein did not show it, instead letting a grating laugh loose. "That is because it was not I with whom you did battle, _Dovahkiin_. I am not the first _dovah_ to hold the name of Yuvondein. It is a name passed down upon the defeat of the previous Keeper of the _Strunmahsefeyal_, the Mountain of the Horde." Yuvondein explained.

"... And where is this Mountain of the Horde?" Hippolyta finally asked after a moment of deliberation. Yuvondein shook his head.

"That I cannot tell you, for you must find the mountain with your own wits, as all the previous Keepers have done." He apologised. With a small nod of understanding, Hippolyta flicked her eyes over to the bronze-scaled dragon with a rather ram-like set of horns that curved forward into wicked points big enough to skewer a mammoth.

"_Zu'u_ Zahkfonaaryol, the Fire Charger, and I am honored to fight at your side, _Dovahkiin_." The great horned dragon snarled, raising its head so what little light shone upon the mountain top flashed off his black horns.

"I am Hahlosumah, the Whisperer." The green drake with frills on its head and back and a spade-like tail hissed in a manner that set the three mortals on edge. Zhaga and Darioth because of his voice's resemblance to that of a snake; Hippolyta because of a memory of an encounter with the Daedric prince of manipulation and murder, Mephala.

"I am Dovmaatdrog, the Judge. I thank you for ousting the World Eater from his throne _Dovahkiin_, for if you had not, _Tahzokaan_ would have surely burned until nothing remained but dust." Thanked the dragon whose spines were nearly as worn down as Ziiaakkrin's, and was the colour of rusty and corroded steel. His wings were nicked and slashed a great deal, and his voice was loud and clear, as befitting one who must have passed sentences unto both mortal and dragon alike.

Finally, one dragon remained. Hippolyta immediately saw that he was smaller than even Lotstrunnah. His wings were full, his spines were jagged, and he was the colour of rich and wet dirt. His pale yellow eyes drifted about quite a lot, and he constantly twitched his leathery wings. _A young one, it seems_. Hippolyta thought.

"And you, _mal gein_." She addressed the dirt brown dragon. "Who are you?"

He did not speak for a handful of seconds. "_Krosis_ _Dovahkiin_, but I am so young that I have yet to be graced with a name." He said with a short bob of his snout. Hippolyta blinked contemplatively and stroked her chin.

"I see. Would you be agreeable answering to Goraansos until such time as you acquire a true name?" She asked. The dragon tilted his head and let out a short blast of searing hot air.

"I believe that is acceptable." 'Goraansos' agreed.

"Now that the introductions are behind us, mount up _Dovahkiin ahrk fahdonne_. We shall carry you down the mountain to further hasten our quest." Ziiaakkrin lowered his head, allowing Hippolyta to swing her leg over his neck and grasp his horns. Darioth and Zhaga quickly mounted Dovmaatdrog and Yuvondein respectively. With deafening wingbeats and a raging wake of powdery snow, the eight dragons lifted off and dove down the mountain, bearing the Empress and her guards back to Whiterun station.

* * *

"Honoured Council members, I thank you for meeting here on such short notice." Hippolyta said to the dozens of members of the Elder Council, clad in their ceremonial red robes. She had been pleasantly surprised upon her return to learn that Ariadne had sent for a meeting of the Council, correctly assuming that something ground-shaking would be afoot for the Empress. Where it would have been another ten days at minimum before every member could make it to the capital, Ariadne's forethought had whittled the wait down to two days. Since her induction, Hippolyta had made a few alterations to the composition of the Elder Council, the end result being multiple additional members from each province so as to remove too much power from the often single representative of any given realm. Such changes were the inclusion the lords and ladies of Hammerfell; the dukes and duchesses of High Rock; the Arch-Masters of the Great Houses of Morrowind; the Lords of Elseweyr; the An-Xileel councilors of Black Marsh; even the King of Orsinium was present. Together, they shaped the future of Hippolyta's reborn Septim Empire. Her eyes drifted to her left, and she could not help but feel a small amount of disdain for whom she saw.

Sicrodion was the Altmer representative on the Council, but he was there to be informed of the Empire's decisions and to convey them to the people of the Summerset Isles, nothing more. After her victory at the Battle for Alinor and inauguration as Empress, Hippolyta had not even blinked before decreeing that the Summerset Isles would be kept under martial law until such time as she believed the Thalmor, and by extension the Aldmeri Dominion's holdouts had been sufficiently cleansed, and 'support of their ideals had been crushed irreparably'. To that effect, the residents received little contact with the mainland in order to prevent the spread of the radical political party's propaganda. Any ships going to and from the islands required an escort and letters of marque written and signed by Hippolyta granting them permission to sail through the occupied territory, and any who carried them acknowledged that their vessel could be subjected to a random screening. Many decried Hippolyta's heavy-handed approach to dealing with the formerly rogue state, and behind her own back, her people uttered oaths like 'traitor' and 'earless', a great insult amongst all mer.

If these opinions had any impact on her, she did an admirable job hiding it.

"I do not wish to keep you for long, so I shall get straight to the point:" Hippolyta clasped her hands behind her back and took a calming breath. "Paarthurnax, Master of the Greybeards, has warned me of a vision he received from the Dragon God himself. He informed me of flashes of lands ravaged by brothers and sisters waging war against each other, burned and frozen over by snow drifts taller than even giants. He told me the vision imparted feelings of pain, suffering and abject terror at the hands of ghostly white men. And finally, he told me that as this white death spreads and blankets all of Nirn, dooming us all to an everlasting night, a hellish warrior sits upon a throne of snakes and laughs as we turn on each other and tear what few mortals remain apart for just a few more minutes of safety." Hippolyta stopped and took another breath. Just repeating the words her mentor had uttered was causing fear to rise in her gullet. With eyes roving, she observed the councilors, who stared back at her in various degrees of rapture, curiosity and calculation.

"In short, men and women of the Council, what I believe Akatosh was trying to pass on to us mortals is the coming of another Oblivion Crisis." She summarised.

Dead silence was all that filled the circular chamber for a good ten seconds. Soon after, murmurs and questions and cries began to fly like hummingbirds in a field of flowers.

"_Nahlot_!" Hippolyta shouted, the power behind the draconic word reverberating through the room alongside her deafening voice. The Councilors immediately quieted. "Now that I have your attention, perhaps we can discuss this civilly?" She 'suggested'. From the shadows near the great oak doors, Ariadne watched her mother in silent wonder. This was the woman who brought down a government, reunified Tamriel and strengthened its bonds to a point unseen in centuries, if not a millennium.

"I mean no offense Your Excellency, but can you truly trust the _spoken word _of an old man dictating what he claims to be a vision from one of the Divines?" Asked Tritus Cavalli, the Duke of Anvil. Bald and beardless, his head was as smooth as an egg, and while wrinkles and stress lines marred his face, a small vestige of handsomeness remained. Cavalli had been a Duke since he was nineteen, and his savant-like intelligence had made him an incredibly cunning politician. She was loath to admit it, but Hippolyta knew that it was only by virtue of her greater experience that had allowed her to out-manoeuvre Cavalli when he opposed her. And even then, she had calculated based upon their engagements, that it only worked eight times out of ten.

"The word of an old man, no. What I _can_ trust, Councilor Cavalli, is the word of a true son of Akatosh- a dragon as old as Alduin- who gave me the tools and knowledge I needed to bring down the World Eater." Hippolyta answered calmly. The multitude of wrinkles around his eyes did not lessen, but Cavalli said nothing more.

"Did he see where the gates would open and this white death would pour from?" Asked Mothar gro-Laz, the King of Orsinium. Hippolyta held no small amount of respect for the Orc king. He spoke plainly when he wanted something, and always endeavoured to get straight to the point; his simple approach to politics and rule was a much-needed break form the complicated word dances and vague desires every other royal present engaged in.

"Indeed, and that is one of the reasons I have asked you here. This white death arises from beyond a giant wall of ice that spans a continent and is as old as Direnni Tower. I know Tamriel better than any adventurer, and I can say with certainty that nothing of the sort exists anywhere here. And because this land is comprised entirely of men, Akavir can be ruled out. That leaves only one place where this wall could possibly be: Westeros." She stated. Westeros. The Shrouded Land as it was called by some. So few had ventured to the far off place, and even fewer had made the return trip, leading many to believe it to be a myth. Hippolyta herself had met a Khajiit captain many years ago that had braved the trek to the other side of Nirn and claimed to have walked among the purely man-inhabited country. When she had shown skepticism, he had presented to her a silver coin embossed with the likeness of one of the land's former kings, Agan Something-or-Other.

"Westeros? This one believed it to be just a legend." said Jo'tungo, Hippolyta's Imperial Battlemage. After appointing him, she had been pleasantly surprised to learn that the inky black Cathay-raht was a descendant of J'zargo, the fiercely competitive mage Hippolyta had ceded the position of Arch-Mage to when she was named Empress. Unlike his forefather, Jo'tungo took a rather more indirect approach to battle magicks, and held masteries in both the Alteration and Illusion schools. He had demonstrated his mastery to her as a Legion Quaestor when holding a garrison with a _turma_ of men during the Whitestrake Rebellion. He had cast a transmuting spell over a platoon's worth of rebels, changing their armour from steel and leather to flimsy pieces of wood. Afterwards, not a single warrior made it through the rain of arrows or his mind-addling rune traps and the stronghold he was charged with defending was left unmolested as the opposing forces fled or ripped each other to shreds. He did not lose one man that day.

"You are not the only one, my friend." She assured him. "And this is the crux of the matter. Paarthurnax told me that this is not the first time this white death has attempted to consume the world; the men of Westeros drove them back into their icy home thousands of years ago once before. What they have _not_ done is battled this scourge with a Daedric Prince driving it forward. That is where I come in."

"I assume your plan involves more than just marching over there, shouting to the streets that a Daedra moves to consume then while swinging a sword about." King Tulqth of Black Marsh dryly chimed in. The Argonian monarch was highly distinguishable, with his navy blue scales and white fringe, and unlike most of the other natives of Black Marsh, he possessed a dry and sarcastic sense of humour just as prominent as the first day she had met him. He made it hard for her to keep a straight face while attempting to entice him and his people into the Empire, especially when he had been portrayed as pragmatic and fiercely loyal to his people.

"Indeed it does, King Tulqth, but I shall take your droll suggestion under advisement." Hippolyta riposted just as dryly, sending a small ripple of chuckles through the Council. "But no, I shall approach this with more subtlety. I and a Legion of soldiers will cross the seas to Westeros with the intent of 'touring the land of our neighbors for the purpose of establishing relations' with its ruler and all sundry. This will provide us with enough cover to gather intel pertaining to the coming crisis, sway key locals to our cause, and when the time is right, drive these abominations back to the darkness from whence they came." It was a simple plan, but that was how Hippolyta operated: No unnecessarily complicated steps, and if a cover was to be kept, it was easy to maintain.

"And if you cannot sway them? Or if you should fail?" Asked Cavalli.

"Two possibilities I have planned for as well. Because of the severity of this situation, I wanted to give you time to spread the word amongst your own people in whichever fashion you choose, and eventually rally your forces should the Legion and I fail. If that indeed becomes the case, let it be known that my final wish is for every warrior of the Empire to make haste for Westeros to finish the job I started." Hippolyta's voice grew somber as she laid out her contingency plan.

"Ah, but what am I saying? I have no doubt that we will succeed. I've dealt with the worst of Nirn and Oblivion before with naught but a sword at my side, magick at my fingertips and the clothes on my back; what's one last war with the Legion at my side?" She asked flippantly, lightening the mood considerably.

"You have your orders, Councilors. Spread the word to your people and rally your armies. That will be all. General Fire-Eater," She said to the Nord general of the Third Legion, an absolute terror with an axe in her hand, and a renowned fire mage. "Assemble the Third Legion at the Rumare Docks and send word to the Navy to muster the Fourth Fleet."

"At once, Excellency." She said with a bow and strutting off at a fast clip.

"Zhaga?" She turned to her Orsimeri guard, who grew curious at the grin on the Empress' grin. It was the look a child might have when they received a gift that they had wanted for a long time on their day of birth. "Head down to the East Empire Company warehouse and tell them to open Bay Five."

Knowing exactly what Hippolyta was talking about, Zhaga could not stop a feral grin from lighting up her face. "Of course, Your Excellency."

* * *

In five days' time, the Third Imperial Legion had assembled at the docks with as many supplies as they could carry, and were loading them onto the six supply galleys that would be coming with them. The supply galleys looked virtually the same as the war galleys, but had had most of the living quarters and barracks removed to make space for fresh water, food, smithing and repair supplies, horses, clothing and the like. Only enough space for a small team of sailors, rowers and twenty soldiers remained aboard the supply galleys.

The Legionnaires themselves would mostly be riding aboard the war galleys, ninety metre ships that could support two hundred men apiece, not including the sailing crew. While they were designed for troop transport and to quickly make landfall to dispense soldiers, Imperial war galleys could still hold their own in naval engagements, thanks to the Dwemer-inspired siege ballistae that had been made standard feature during the Naval reforms. The top two decks housed twelve light ballistae per side, as well as four bow and stern ballistae, totaling thirty-two. These oversized crossbows could fire eight or twelve kilogram broadhead bolts, pitch bolts that ignited on impact or boarding bolts if an enemy ship was to be commandeered. While a force to be engaged cautiously, the fleet's twenty Legion war galleys were quite slow and cumbersome, making them less than ideal for frontline combat. As such, they were to be kept in the core of the fleet to provide supporting fire and let the ships-of-the-line handle the fighting.

While four thousand members of the Third Legion were carried by the galleys, the remaining two thousand were interspersed among the combat ships, comprised of frigates and carracks. The frigates were the workhorse of the Fourth Fleet, used as escorts for larger ships and flanking manoeuvres in battle. At forty-eight metres long with two square-rigged sails and boasting thirty-two ballistae, these swift and manoeuvrable ships packed all of the firepower of a war galley into a much smaller and faster vessel. Crewmen excluded, sixty-four Legionnaires occupied each of the twenty frigates in order to operate the ballistae or repel boarders. In addition, the frigates used both light and heavy ballistae. The light were the bow and stern weapons and used four or eight kilogram broadhead/pitch bolts. The heavy broadsiders used sixteen or twenty kilogram broadhead/pitch bolts.

The carracks were the heavy hitters of the Fourth Fleet. Sixty-six metres long and with seventy-four ballistae with which to rain hell upon an attacker meant that the Fourth Fleet warranted only four carracks to carry 148 Legionnaires each. The lower gun deck housed twenty-eight heavy ballistae, and the upper deck housed thirty light. The bow and stern were armed with eight ultralight ballistae- only being able to shoot four kilogram bolts- and two scattershot ballistae, which were highly useful for shredding sails, but only worked at close range.

And then there was the flagship of their journey, Hippolyta's personal floating fortress, the _Dream Crusher_.

It was the first and only ship of its kind. The chief builder Hippolyta had commissioned to build the mighty war machine it had called it a 'dreadnought'. The first readily apparent attribute of the _Dream Crusher_ was its size. The largest man o' wars in the Imperial Navy were the flagships of the First and Second Fleets, the _Crusader_ and the _Marauder_, both seventy-eight metres long and boasting ninety-six ballistae. The two of them combined _might _have been able to take on the 120 metre _Dream Crusher_. Taking influence from the _Crusader _and _Marauder_, the dreadnought's frame was composed of Dwemer metal to keep its integrity in the heat of battle. The _Dream Crusher_ took this concept one step further, encasing the timber composing its body and masts in a thin sheath of Dwemer armour. The dreadnought's shape was unique, tapering only slightly from the stern of the vessel to a point, then sharply narrowing into an angled wedge with a thick bar of metal that served as a ram. If one were to look at the _Dream Crusher_ from above, one might say it resembled a blade, cutting through water and anything in its way. The large volume of metal and the ship's size meant that it was very slow, and even with the immensely powerful and innovative Dwemer steam-powered propeller running at full tilt and a favourable wind in her three enormous square-rigged sails, the _Dream Crusher_ had never reached a speed above seven knots. But the dreadnought was not built for speed.

The very same ship builder commissioned with the construction of the _Dream Crusher_ had said "This ship shall be designed for one thing, and one thing only: To ruin someone else's day." His description had garnered laughs and approving roars from his subordinates. The amount of carnage the dreadnought could wreak was unparalleled, owing to its three decks of ballistae, totaling 120. Each gun deck housed twenty launchers per side, the lowest composed of heavy ballistae, the middle deck were light, and the top deck were ultralight and scattershot. As with every ship in the Navy, should the ballistae fail, the _Dream Crusher_ was not without defenses, as archers and mages could rain down steel and magickal destruction in the absence of giant crossbow bolts. It had taken three years to finish, seen action only once, and despite her offering it to the Imperial Navy for use, remained Hippolyta's property. Grand Admiral Janus Sforza had said that no armed force should possess so much power, and that if she ever wanted the support of the Imperial Navy, she was to lock the dreadnought away unless an event of cataclysmic proportions were to occur. Knowing that she could not sit the Ruby Throne without Legion support, the Empress grudgingly had the _Dream Crusher _deactivated and locked away from the world.

It was on the newly dusted off ship that Hippolyta, who had commissioned and paid for it out of her own pocket, stood proudly. By her sides were the platinum-haired General Tonje Fire-Eater, commander-in-chief of the Third Legion, and Legate Sattar, her bald Redguard second-in-command. The only other non-sailors and weapon operators on the _Dream Crusher_ were one hundred of Hippolyta's Praetorian Guard. Thus while the dreadnought was lightly-manned, numerically-considered, it was still the most heavily-defended ship on the water.

"General, status?" Hippolyta asked. Tonje clicked her heels together and straightened her back.

"Preparation is complete Your Excellency. We stand ready to move on your command." She reported. 'Taciturn' was the word most people used to describe the older Nord. She called it 'efficient'.

"Good. I shall make a speech before we go." She said more to herself as she made for the prow of the _Dream Crusher_. Letting a splinter of her power bleed into her voice, Hippolyta's words boomed across the docks and the fifty ships of the Fourth Fleet, and up into the air where her eight dragon companions lazily circled.

"Brave men and women of the Legion and Navy! _Dov_ _do Tahzokaan_! On this day, we stand ready to embark on another great quest. We travel to a land unknown, and the enemy we seek is a stranger, but the one who drives them is far from unfamiliar. The men and women of Westeros have never faced a foe so foul and tyrannical as a Daedric Prince, and if left to be, they will surely be devoured and damned to the lowest planes of Oblivion! It is up to we few, we happy few, we band of brothers and sisters to make sure that _does not happen_!" She shouted, her voice growing stronger with every word.

"We will not sail forth into war seeking riches, or plunder, or accolades! We will sail forth into war as sword and shield, seeking only to cut this darkness from a world it has yet to sully. For we are the Imperial Legion, the finest military force in all of Tamriel, and the one I am honoured to call my own!" She was positively roaring as she unsheathed and held aloft Freedom, the ebony core of the dragon bone blade flashing in the light.

"This white death will invariably try to take from us," she began just loud enough for the farthest ship to hear, before raising her voice and bellowing so loud that the people on the other side of the Imperial City felt their homes rattle. "BUT WE WILL GIVE THEM NOTHING! AND FROM THEM, WE WILL TAKE _**EVERYTHING**_!" She sucked in a much needed breath as six thousand men, women, mer and beast-folk answered her speech with a tremendous roar and rattling weapons.

"_Full speed ahead_!" Yelled Captain Myrra Horatiu, an aged Breton woman. The call was echoed through every ship in the fleet, and slowly, the frigates moved forth, followed by the carracks, the galleys and finally the dreadnought. The eight dragons hovered above the ships and beat their wings, giving them a little extra boost in speed.

As her ship began to crawl through the Upper Niben River and she waved goodbye to her children standing at the dock, Hippolyta contemplated the voyage ahead. After they reached the mouth of the Niben, the Fourth Fleet would keep relatively close to the southern coast of Black Marsh. Once they had seen the shores of Lilmoth, they would angle slightly north and begin their trek across the Padomaic Sea, stopping at Cathnoquey, the southernmost island in the archipelago separating Tamriel and Akavir. They would rest on the island for no more than three days, to ensure their presence would draw as little attention as possible. From there, they would make all haste southeast to the very tip of the Tsaesci Peninsula for another brief respite. In total, the voyage to Akavir as to be almost seven thousand kilometers long. At an average cruising speed of seven knots, favourable weather and with their rest period on Cathnoquey factored in, the Fourth Fleet would be at sea for twenty-five days at the very best before reaching Akavir. From there, after two days to rest and hopefully avoid the armies of the vampiric and reptilian Tsaesci, it would be another seventy-four hundred kilometers until they made landfall on The Shrouded Land. Again, with favourable conditions, they would finish their journey from Akavir to Westeros in a minimum of twenty-five days, again.

With these figures in mind as she retreated to her private chamber, Hippolyta knelt by her window and bean to pray. She prayed to Kynareth for eastbound winds and calm waters. She prayed to Azura, so the moon and the stars might light their way at night. She prayed to Talos, beseeching Him to grant strength to her loyal subjects and her for the war that was to inevitably come.

And finally, she prayed to Stendarr to let His wisdom shine down upon her children, more specifically Ariadne, who would rule Tamriel in her absence. In the back of her mind, she hoped that if something did happen in her absence, that her children would show restraint when exercising their great power.

* * *

**Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby give you the debut of 'One Last War'. If you have been following my previous works, you may have caught wind of references to this fic in Chapter 16 of 'The Teaser'. Well, it was the ideas touched upon in that chapter that spurred me to begin this story. Couple things I want to touch on in the post-script:**

**A) The distance between Tamriel and Akavir is based off of information taken from accounts of Uriel Septim V's failed invasion of Akavir.**

**B) The remaining distances and times are decided by me, based on the assumption that Nirn's diameter is twice the size of Earth's (12 742 km).**

**C) All Dovahzul translations retrieved from, and can be found at thuum dot org.**

**Now that I have that out of the way, would you kindly...**

**1- Tell me whether or not you liked this story**

**2- Tell me what you SPECIFICALLY liked about this installment**

**3- Tell me what you DIDN'T like about this installment**

**4- Recommend a suitable improvement**

**5- Ask me about anything you might be unclear on**

* * *

**BONUS: OC Submission**

**Dearest readers, I am in need of your help. As I wrote, Hippolyta Septim is sailing to Westeros with 6 000 Legionnaires, 100 Praetorian Guards and a cohort of sailors. I may be creative, but even I can't come up with that many characters. That's where you come in. If you wish to see a character of your creation appear in my story, please submit him/her with the following details:**

**Category of submission (Legionnaire or Praetorian or Sailor)**

**Character's name**

**Character's race (And place of birth) (NOTE: Mixed breeds are accepted)**

**Character's appearance (NOTE: The more creative you are with their appearance, the more likely I am to use them)**

**Character's Personality and Past (Growing up, previous experience, previous hardships, personality type and quirks, subject(s) of worship, etc.) (NOTE: The more creative you are with their personality, the more likely I am to use them)**

**Character's Attributes (Fighting style, armour/clothing choice, weapon(s) choice/magical talents. etc.) (Please be as creative as possible; do not simply adhere to the weapons seen in the Elder Scrolls series)**

**And finally, YOU MUST SUBMIT YOUR REQUESTS IN THE FORM OF A PRIVATE MESSAGE, OR THEY WILL NOT BE CONSIDERED. Submissions will be considered valid until April 28, any submitted afterwards will be rejected.**

**Divines smile upon you,**

**DR**

* * *

**Update: 6:20 PM, 5 May, 2015: Fixed a few awkward sentences to increase the smoothness of the dialogue.**


	2. Landfall

**One Last War**

**By: Dirty Reid**

**Chapter 2: Landfall**

* * *

**Sixty-three days later...**

Hippolyta felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders as she spotted a dark strip on the early morning horizon, spelling the end of their extended journey. "Land ho!" She shouted, her voice echoing across the water and reaching the ear of the nearly seven thousand men and women accompanying her. Ragged cheers and praises to the Divines and a few Daedra went up. Dovmaatdrog raised his head from the churning waters behind the _Dream Crusher_ and roared in approval. When they were not circling the Fourth Fleet, Hippolyta's battlewagons were scouting several kilometers around the ships, keeping watch for other vessels or incoming storms, or swimming beneath the roiling waves, hunting for fish and sharks and whales to eat.

Their expedition had not been seamless. From the Niben to Lilmoth, their journey had been progressing well. Their luck had gone into a steep dive almost as soon as they had veered north, making for Cathnoquey. The first storm had struck two days after Tamriel was no longer visible in the west. Hippolyta's Thu'um was sufficient to cleave a canyon through the inky black clouds... at first. On the next day, another storm cell blotted out the warm sun. As she once again Shouted to the heavens, rending the clouds and rain asunder, Hippolyta felt worry begin to creep through her as the immense thunderheads reassembled just before they rode out of its range, dousing them with an icy sheet of rain. On the third day, even asking her dragons to help clear the skies was of no use; their Thu'um rent holes in the rolling clouds, but they closed like gigantic mouths and pelted the errant Legion with freezing needles, shrieking gales and angry swells. Once they had cleared their latest gauntlet, the sails of the frigates _Antipathy_ and _Tumultuous_, and those of the supply galley _Excess_ had to be removed and patched before they could resume full speed. Knowing they could no longer sail straight and presume to keep their numbers, Hippolyta had asked Ziiaakkrin and his fellows to begin scouting ahead, reporting instances of storms or cyclones to her.

This strategy worked, but an unfortunate side effect became apparent when their chart master showed Hippolyta their path, and she was reminded of a scribbling she had seen Mirabelle making when she was just a toddler. Their weaving and dodging of storms and numerous returns to their original course added three days to the first leg of their journey. Had she not needed to uphold the image of an unshakable tower of strength, wisdom and compassion, Hippolyta might have joined a few of her subjects as they flopped down on the warm yellow sands of Cathnoquey. Instead, she closed her eyes and relished the feel of coarse sand between her toes for a few minutes before ordering the rangers of the Legion to establish a perimeter around their beachhead. She them ordered the Rune Masters to lay down a series of traps to deter any locals who would use the Legion's fatigue as an opportunity for plundering. Hahlosumah and Vokunnirbo took to the air in search of any sign of trouble that could come their way, utilising an interesting Thu'um that rendered them both silent and invisible.

Perhaps M'aiq was more right about the dragons being invisible and very quiet than she thought.

Their three day respite passed with no major incidents. Her rangers reported that a few animals had to be scared off, but there had been no sign of any peoples from Tamriel or Akavir. For some unshakable reason, Hippolyta could not help but feel as though they were being watched. The sensation persisted even as the Legion packed up and moved out to continue their journey. The answer as to why she felt that way came after their first night at sea, in the depths of a deep slumber.

* * *

Hippolyta's eyes opened to a dark and endless forest. Trees reached up from the ground and disappeared into the inky black sky. Moss hung from dead and fallen trunks like filthy rags and cast finger-like shadows across the ground. A small pond in the distance was black glass, perfect in the lack of wind. Absent were the other sounds of the forest as well. No leaves rattled, no wood groaned, no animals squeaked or growled or skittered. It made Hippolyta's breathing sound as loud as a bellows, and her heartbeat akin to the thunder of a war drum. Looking down, the Empress noted that she was dressed only in her pale golden skin, the many scars and marrings on her flesh as plain as day. Hippolyta forgot the unnatural silence of the forest and the stifling blanket of fear associated with it for a moment as she observed her body. She had given birth to Ariadne, Mirabelle, Earynwe and Casiim over a span of eighty-four years, giving her plenty of time to shed the weight she gained with each pregnancy. The last time she had truly stopped to appreciate her body, her arms were sinewy with muscle, her rear was as round and firm as an orange, and her abdominals cast small shadows along her belly. The muscle was still there, but washboard abdominals had given way to soft curves. That was not good. _I've grown lazy during peacetime, telling myself that I'm getting old._ While it was true that Hippolyta was old, that was no excuse for becoming slovenly. The oldest inducted member of her Praetorian guard had been a Dunmer pushing two-and-a-half centuries, and even in his twilight years he could match the strength and ferocity of men one tenth of his age.

With a blink, Hippolyta looked up and scanned the forest as the ever-present blanket of silent unease continued to weigh down upon her. It was nigh on suffocating at this point. "You did not bring me here to admire me, I presume." She called to the empty forest, her raised voice perceived to be as loud as if she had yelled.

"... Indeed not." A high-pitched voice rose like a wind from nowhere, localizing from behind the Empress. Blinking hard and wondering what had arisen behind her, Hippolyta slowly turned about to face the speaker.

There she was. The Dream Weaver, in all of her glory. Vaermina had chosen to appear as a skinny young woman of average height. She wore an ankle-length dress with a white pattern consistent of a human skeleton, and black fabric that shifted and twisted into images so grotesque that had they not cycled so rapidly, Hippolyta would surely have felt afraid. A skeever's skull served as a fastener for the dress and hung in the Daedric prince's cleavage, doing nothing to conceal her ghostly breasts. A chain ran through the skull's teeth and attached to piercings in Vaermina's nipples. She wore a high-backed web-like red cape that morphed into two dragon heads at the level of her shoulder blades. In her clawed left hand, she clutched the Skull of Corruption. But it was her face that inspired terror only achieved by the most foul of nightmares. Black markings arranged like tattoos gave her the appearance of having a skull painted onto her visage, and a nose ring attached two chains to piercings in her mer-ish ears, uncovered by dead-looking black hair. The two scaly, curling horns jutting from her forehead and her eerily glowing blue eyes served as the finishing touches for Vaermina's demonic image.

For a moment, Empress and Daedra stared into each other's eyes. While most men, mer and beast-folk would have shrunken away from the nightmare creature before them, Hippolyta had long ago slaked her fear of the prince. It was a necessary action, as acceptance and facing one's fears head on was one of the multitude of tests she had designed for the training to become a Praetorian. What better way to do so than to have one's mind violated by the Queen of Quagmire?

"Vaermina." Hippolyta acknowledged with the barest of nods. The prince did not move. "Still mad at me for banishing your staff?" She guessed, referring to the task she had undertaken with the priest of Mara, Erandur, so many years ago.

"The fact that you are not a brain-dead husk drooling all over yourself should answer that question, Hippolyta." Vaermina retorted curtly. "There would be no point. Eventually, I will cast my Skull back down to Mundus to feast and torment its mortals, and you will be too old and decrepit to stop me." _Well, that makes sense in an evil sort of way._ Hippolyta grimaced at the thought. "Assuming of course, you survive the coming of the Others." She added almost as an afterthought. _Not macabre at all_.

"I assume these 'Others' are why you have brought me here?" Hippolyta guessed, crossing her arms under her bust. Vaermina's mouth hardened into a line, the tooth-shaped tattoos moving eerily along with her lips.

"At his request. I am just the facilitator." She jerked her horned head at something past Hippolyta's shoulder, prompting the Empress to turn about once again.

A figure shrouded completely in a swampy green cloak stood before her. As it raised its hooded head, Hippolyta shifted in surprise when she saw not a face, but a gigantic eyeball with a pupil shaped like a sideways eight. And now that she took a closer look, Hippolyta forced a shudder down as she saw that the cloak was in fact tentacles as thin as the edge of a sword. Only one Daedra would choose a form as bizarre as this. He was the one to whom she owed loyalty for his assistance in striking down Miraak, the First Dragonborn, as well as gifting her with powers from his ominous tomes of secrets. He was the Keeper of Forbidden Knowledge, and the one who scryed the past and future by way of the tides of fate. He was the ever-omniscient Hermaeus Mora.

"My lord." Hippolyta acknowledged, the words feeling strange as they rolled off her tongue. It had been a very long time since she had addressed anyone as a superior instead of an equal or subordinate.

"The years have been kind to you, my Champion." Mora observed in his persistently echoing, hollow voice. Others might have taken his words as a compliment, but Hippolyta saw his words for what they were: A reminder of the knowledge given to her that had seen her outliving almost everyone she ever knew. For Mora to bring it up meant that he wanted something.

"What is it you want, my lord?" She asked, hoping that Mora would not prattle on, as he was so inclined to do.

"You wish in the back of your mind to know all there is to know about Westeros, and the 'White Death' you have been tasked with defeating. It is an interest I share." He intoned, much to the surprise of Hippolyta. Why she was surprised was a bit of a mystery. It had been proven in the past that secrets could be kept from the infinite and all-seeing eyes of Hermaeus Mora, who had tasked her with rectifying such and persuading Storn Crag-Strider, shaman of the Skaal, to give up his knowledge. Why should this have been any different?

"And as your eyes on Nirn, you would have me bring it to you." She deduced.

"Indeed." Mora nodded, and his robe shimmered at the motion. "My influence in this land is _sorely_ lacking, and to see so many wells of knowledge erased by these abominations would be a travesty." The enormous eye moved to stare off at something in the distance. He continued to do so for a few seconds before refocusing on Hippolyta.

"So you see, mortal, I stand to lose a great deal if my sister succeeds in using these Others to bring the men and women of The Shrouded Land to its knees. I charge you with bringing me the knowledge of its people with all due haste. And to assist you, I leave you with this: If you are truly lost, the deepest depths give rise to the oldest light." And with his cryptic words, Hermaeus Mora began to drift backwards, slowly melting into the shadows of the silent forest. Hippolyta blinked hard and cast her eyes downwards as she pondered Mora's words.

"I don't suppose you know what he was talking about, do you?" She asked Vaermina. She didn't need to turn around to know that the Daedric prince was smirking.

"That would be telling, wouldn't it?" She asked. "Now get out." and after everything faded to black, Hippolyta woke to the sensation of falling from a great height.

* * *

From Cathnoquey, the Fourth Fleet weaved through fewer storms, but curious doldrums left their sails empty, save for the breezes Hippolyta's battlewagons managed to raise for short bouts before growing tired. Every ship cam with oars to boost their speed, but the rowers could not hope to propel them across three thousand kilometers of water. Hippolyta had once entertained the thought of using the Storm Call Shout, but even at this time, she did not believe herself capable of exercising enough control to keep the raging lightning storm she would summon from burning their ships down. With that in mind as they approached Akavir four more days behind schedule and later continued to sail east with yet another six days added to their trip, Hippolyta ensured that the Legion did what it always had done, and would continue to do:

Endure.

And now, as she sank to her knees on the beaches of The Shrouded Land, she felt the stress of being cooped up on her dreadnought for two months evaporating. More than a few Legionnaires and sailors had done the same, and Zahkfonaaryol lay curled up by a large black rock, deep in sleep. Lotstrunnah perched upon a mountain of stones, balefully scanning the lands for any men or riders who did not bear the sigil of the Legion. The other six floated about in the water. Hippolyta stopped focusing on her battlewagons and continued to rest for another two minutes. Once over, she got up and retreated to her tent, the largest of the few that had been set up so far, and proceeded to change into a cotton shirt, breeches and well worn boots. A silver circlet encrusted with rubies perched on her head and served as the only hint of her station, should the locals come calling. She exited the tent and made to helping expand the immense cloth city. The lower ranks of the Legionnaires assured her that troubling herself with assisting them was not necessary, but she heard none of it. She demonstrated her immense magickal power by grasping three tents at a time and simultaneously erecting them. With the mages who quickly joined her, they erected one hundred tents in the span of an hour. Afterwards, combined with the unwavering strength of the Legion and the Praetorians, they managed to raise all sixty-one-hundred remaining tents in less than six hours. The members of the Navy felt more comfortable on their ships, and would continue to bunk there.

After finishing the brunt of the work and the soldiers and sailors began to unload the essentials from the supply galleys, Hippolyta was holding court in General Tonje Fire-Eater's tent. On the table where a map of the realm would go, there was simply a piece of parchment detailing their general strategy. Under the column with the title 'Primary Objectives' there was one entry: 'Stop the Oblivion Crisis'. A rather broad objective, but they had nowhere else to start. A second column occupied the right half of the parchment, titled 'Secondary Objectives'. There were two entries written down: 'Identify and establish relations with persons of influence' and 'Persuade persons of influence to join our cause'. Their plans would have to wait a short while as the Legion found its footing here in Westeros.

"Have your scouts found anything General?" Hippolyta asked without preamble.

"Aye, Excellency. Firstly, we seemed to have landed in a small inlet; that gives us some shielding from the eyes of pirates looking to pillage, but opportunities for ground troops to engulf us. I've sent men to begin erecting temporary watchtowers until we relocate to somewhere new." She opened quickly. "There's a river mouth perhaps forty miles northeast of here. Were we to go looking for locals, that's where I would start. There is naught but forests to the south. A Wood Elf could wake up there and think he was home." She smirked lightly. Hippolyta's lips twitched but she otherwise showed no amusement.

"Have you sent any envoys to search for local peoples?" She asked. Fire-Eater shook her head.

"No. Some of the sailors say they saw an island with fires burning bright before we made landfall. We have surely been seen approaching, and I would not expect us to remain alone for long." She explained. Hippolyta nodded, grasping the General's plan.

"We're waiting for them to come to us. We're the bait, enticing them into our grasp." She deduced.

"Precisely." She answered with a small gleam in her eye. "A risky gamble, sure, but I've taken steps to ensure we will come out on top if things run afoul."

"Hm," Hippolyta hummed as she grasped her chin. She would have said more had a lightly-armoured Imperial came rushing in.

"Your Excellency, General Fire-Eater." He said in a rush, bending over to try and catch his breath.

"Calm yourself, soldier." Fire-Eater ordered calmly.

"Yes, ma'am." He said after a deep breath. As he stood, Hippolyta noted the sweat on his brow. He must have sprinted the entire way here. "A dozen riders make for our beachhead from the southeast, one carrying a standard. I believe we have caught the attention of the locals." He stated. Hippolyta and Tonje shared a look, a silent conversation passing between their eyes.

"Good work, Auxillary. Take rest and have a drink. Her Excellency and I will take it from here." Fire-Eater ordered, moving about to collect her ebony war axe. Hippolyta hurried out of Fire-Eater's private tent, intending to change into something a little more befitting of an Empress.

"Darioth! Blackfire!" She barked to two passing Praetorians. Both of them stopped with near impossible speed and stood at attention. "Ready four mounts for a journey. We're about to have company." She ordered before dashing off. In record time, she had wrapped herself in a slim white dress with long, flaring sleeves and a neckline cut low enough to be provocative, but at the same time maintain decency. A golden circlet with three diamonds inlaid perched on her golden locks, tied up in a ponytail. A necklace with the silver dragon of the Empire dangled from her neck. As she finished slipping on a set of enchanted rings she looked at Freedom, which stood against the edge of her bed, contemplating whether or not to bring it along. In the end, she decided against it. She wanted to appear as non-hostile as a woman who brought six thousand soldiers and a fleet of warships along with her could be. If diplomacy failed, she had her spells and her Voice with which to defend herself.

General Fire-Eater and her two Praetorians stood ready to move out, four rounceys saddled and ready. Hippolyta guessed that the sleek silver horse held in place by Fire-Eater's left hand was her mount, which she took and ascended with cat-like grace. While her armour was mostly leather with a mail shirt beneath for added protection, and therefore quite light, Fire-Eater's mounting was significantly less graceful, but swift. Darioth saddled up with almost as much grace as the Empress, but little Lena Blackfire wore a full set of Daedric armour and had to move slowly, lest she fall or harm her mount.

"Move out." Hippolyta ordered, and the four began a trot out of the camp, heading in the direction the riders were coming from.

It did not take long for the two parties to meet. Hippolyta noted that they were all men, wearing armour that varied from simple boiled leather to chainmail hauberks all the way up to full plate mail. The standard carried by one of them depicted a red fox head encircled by twelve lapis lazuli flowers. One man bore the same sigil on his steel cuirass, and rode ahead of the other eleven. His dark brown hair parted to the left, his beard was neatly trimmed and Hippolyta noted that his ears were ever so slightly pointed at the tips. A blue cloak fell over his shoulders, but left the fine sword at his left hip quite visible. Taking the initiative, she urged her rouncey forward a few steps to meet the leader. He seemed slightly put off at her advance, but that could have been surprise as he craned his neck to look up into the eyes of the seven foot tall Empress with ears the shape of seashells, slanted eyes and golden skin.

"Hail, men of Westeros. What brings you to our quaint little City of Cloth?" She asked with a small smirk in her best Empress voice. It seemed to give them pause if the murmurs from the back of the ranks was any indication.

"Your arrival has caused no small amount of alarm, m'lady. I would speak to your leader about his intentions in our lands." He said in a tone that brooked no arguments. It was what he said that gave Hippolyta some understanding of how rule was established in Westeros: Men ruled, and women were kept to the side. Here she was in all her finery and he did not even consider that she may have been someone important. Now that she thought about it, that look he gave her earlier probably meant he did not understand why a woman came forward to greet him. She firmly resolved to disabuse him of his preconceived notions.

"Well, here I am." She said while raising her arms. The murmurs and looks of surprise and intrigue began anew.

"_You_ lead these men?" He asked just a little to incredulously. Hippolyta's carefully neutral expression gave way to a flicker of annoyance, and she did not need to look to the side to know that Fire-Eater was grinding her teeth at the disrespect blatantly being directed at her.

"No. I _rule_ these men and women. Do you think I wear this fancy getup just because I feel like it?" She asked. She heard Darioth snort quietly behind her. The man quickly backpedaled.

"I apologise m'lady, I meant no offense. Women in positions of power are rare here in Westeros, you see. I suppose it is different where you come from." He visibly swallowed under the woman in mail's withering gaze. The tan-coloured man with black eyes and a face even pointier than the woman before him simply watched his cohorts, and he could not look long upon the figure in hellish-looking black armour for long before fear diverted his gaze.

"I suppose I can forgive your slight as simple ignorance this one time. But back to the matter at hand: You and your fellows have rode out to learn who we are, and why we are here. It would cast a slight pall on our meeting should I offend the first people I meet in a country most of my subjects still believe to be a myth." She cleared her throat and reared up to her full height, light from the trees catching the golden circlet on her head and causing some small amount of awe in the twelve riders.

"I am Hippolyta Septim the First, Empress of Tamriel, Magister of House Telvanni of the province Morrowind and former General of the Free Army of Tamriel." She announced proudly. The few titles were less than half of what she could have said, but should she have listed them all, they would have been there all day. "To my right is Tonje Fire-Eater of the province Skyrim, General of the Third Imperial Legion and Mistress of Pyromancy." She gave a nod to her General. The men of Westeros regarded her with interest, curiosity, and some disbelief.

"Behind us are members of my Praetorian Guard: Darioth, Master Archer of the province Valenwood," She twisted about to look at the Bosmer, who flourished his hand and bowed on his mount. "and Lena Blackfire, Battlemage of Skyrim." She indicated the figure in Daedric armour, who nodded imperceptibly. The men's reactions varied from double takes to outright scoffs at the notion of pyromancers and battlemages, something to consider for the future. Hippolyta redirected her verdant gaze to the Westerosi.

"And who are you, who fly the banner of a fox in a blue field?" She asked in a voice so commanding that the leader with the fox on his breast felt that his tone was piteous when compared to not simply that of a noble lady, but that of an _Empress_.

"I am Ser Imry Florent, Your Grace. I am a Knight of House Florent and sworn sword to Alester Florent, Lord of Brightwater Keep. It is my lord's lands that you and your... Legion have landed upon." Imry Florent stated. All four of them knew that the knight had intended to say 'trespassing', but held their tongues.

"Well, Ser Imry of House Florent," Hippolyta said with a smoky undertone to her voice that Darioth and Blackfire knew all too well: It was the voice she used when she intended to get what she wanted, and would take nothing less than a 'yes' for an answer. "Perhaps you could show me to Lord Alester's Brightwater Keep so I might allay any notions of attack or invasion he may harbour? I know he sent you to learn of our intentions, but I despise repeating myself more than necessary, as I am sure would happen if I told you and was then asked to entreat your lord." She reasoned with a bat of her eyelashes and a small grin. The charm worked, much to her surprise. Normally, she would have to put on more of a show for almost everyone.

"Very well." Imry relented. "If you will follow me please, I will show you to Brightwater Keep." He tugged on the reins of his destrier and his company followed suit. Behind them, Hippolyta, Fire-Eater and the two Praetorians trailed along silently. As Empress and General shared a short look, each gave a tiny smile before returning their attention to the bannermen of House Florent.

If it was this easy to sway the opinion of those in power here in Westeros, they might actually wind up facing the Oblivion Crisis with a few men willing to fight and bleed and die alongside them.

* * *

**Here endeth Chapter 2. I know almost nothing happened, but I've found that my usual chapter size of 6-10k words is just too much to pump out on a regular basis. There will be a little action in the next chapter, I swear by the Seven and the Nine! But first, would you kindly:**

**1) Tell me whether or not you liked this chapter**

**2) Tell me what you SPECIFICALLY liked about this chapter**

**3) Tell me what you DIDN'T like about this chapter**

**4) Recommend a suitable improvement**

* * *

**BONUS: OC Submission**

**Dearest readers, I am in need of your help. As I wrote, Hippolyta Septim is sailing to Westeros with 6 000 Legionnaires, 100 Praetorian Guards and 800 sailors. I may be creative, but even I can't come up with that many new characters for some parts of the story featuring them. That's where you come in. If you wish to see a character of your creation appear in my story, please submit him/her with the following details:**

**Category of submission (Legionnaire or Praetorian or Sailor)**

**Character's name**

**Character's race (And place of birth) (NOTE: Mixed breeds are accepted)**

**Character's appearance (NOTE: The more detailed you are with their appearance, the more likely I am to use them)**

**Character's Personality and Past (Growing up, previous experience, previous hardships, personality type and quirks, subject(s) of worship, etc.) (NOTE: The more creative you are with their personality, the more likely I am to use them)**

**Character's Attributes (Fighting style, armour/clothing choice, weapon(s) choice/magical talents. etc.) (Please be as creative as possible; do not simply adhere to the weapons seen in the Elder Scrolls series)**

**And finally, YOU MUST SUBMIT YOUR REQUESTS IN THE FORM OF A PRIVATE MESSAGE, OR THEY WILL NOT BE CONSIDERED. Submissions will be considered valid until April 28, any submitted afterwards will be rejected.**

**Divines smile upon you,**

**DR**


	3. Meeting the New Neighbours

**One Last War**

**By: Dirty Reid**

**Chapter 3: Meeting the New Neighbours**

* * *

The lush forests of the Reach, as one of Ser Imry's bannermen called it, did an excellent job of concealing the small dirt path that the Florent party eventually led Hippolyta and her soldiers to. While the men rode to their front and sides an gave no indication that they wished to attack, Hippolyta had sent significant looks to General Fire-Eater, Darioth and Blackfire. The Praetorians' bodies were tensed and ready to defend themselves at a second's notice and like her Empress, Fire-Eater had a spell on the tip of her fingers.

At a decent canter with one stop for their mounts to drink from a small stream, their journey ate up two hours of time. The forests quickly gave way to grasslands, and perched before one of the softly curved mountains was Brightwater Keep. A thick stone wall surrounded the town, shielding the white-walled houses with wood and hay-thatched roofs from marauding brigands and dangerous wildlife. Behind the keep, a small river flowed peacefully, shielded by various trees heavy with fruit. Standing above the wall and houses, the grey-and-white-stoned seat of House Florent looked down upon the keep like a protective guardian. The standard flew from two flags atop the squared, crenelated tower.

One of the Florent men noticed the Empress gazing up at the tower silently. "Quite the beauty, isn't it?" He asked proudly. If he had expected an affirmation or a reverent nod from Hippolyta, her nonchalant shrug must have been extremely disappointing.

"It's quaint." She said. "I am reminded of the Whiterun of yesteryear." She answered candidly.

"Whiterun? Is that one of your cities?" Asked another Florent man.

"Indeed. It is situated on the planes in the middle of Skyrim, and today serves as a central hub for transport and trade in the province." Hippolyta sighed at the flood of memories. "In some way, Whiterun was where my ascension began."

"Your ascension?" Asked Imry, who had been listening intently to the Empress' words.

"Yes, but I shall say no more for now. If there is one thing you must know about me Ser Imry, it is that I detest repeating myself." And with that declaration, Hippolyta remained silent about her past as the band of bannermen led them through the front gates of Brightwater Keep. Their party drew stares from every corner of the lower district. Some were curious, others were interested, and others were suspicious. Hippolyta had to admit that they made for an odd group. There was the Empress, regal, impossibly tall in their eyes, with pointed ears and golden skin; General Fire-Eater, a still fair woman garbed in fine battle gear with an axe at her belt; Darioth, whose face and ears were even pointier than her own, and the colour of faded leather; and finally, Lena Blackfire, whose gender was unknowable, owing to her full suit of demonic Daedric armour and complement of weapons. None of the four Tamrielics paid the looks any mind as they rode through the keep and into the courtyard of the castle, whereupon they dismounted their rounceys and left them with a gaggle of awestruck stable boys. Hippolyta raised a thin eyebrow as Ser Imry quickly stood to bar their entry to Brightwater Keep proper.

"While you have shown no ill intent Your Grace, I still cannot allow you or your companions entry so heavily armed." He stated flatly. "I mean no offense."

Hippolyta was far too smart and experienced to believe that this 'rule' applied to everyone, but she privately admired his ability to conceal his emotions. Behind the iron curtain, she hid her own smirk at the knowledge of her foursome having spells and some of the best hand-to-hand skills in Tamriel to back them up. Wordlessly, she looked to Fire-Eater, Darioth and Blackfire with a nod. The three returned the gesture and set about removing their weapons. Fire-Eater's ebony axe with its golden filigree drew more than one appraising look. Darioth's golden-hued bow and arrows begot curiosity at their lack of weight, as well as his fine steel dagger. Finally, Blackfire's Daedric bow and daggers elicited trepidation at their eerily pulsing red inlays, as well as confusion about the empty quiver glowing with purple characters she handed over.

"What good is a bow with no arrows?" One of the men asked with amusement. No response came from the petite Praetorian, but the speaker felt his flesh crawl as those deep and empty sockets stared at him. His inability to see her expression meant all he could do was imagine what was going on under that helmet, and combined with the frankly frightening battlewear, his traitorous mind conjured quite a few eerie images.

"Follow me, please." Ser Imry ordered, leading the group of four into the white stone castle. As the knight led them up through the lower levels of Brightwater Keep proper, the four Tamrielics drew no fewer looks of interest, curiosity or trepidation. Several flights and floors later, they entered a sunlit room with no less than twelve armed men bearing the sigil of House Florent In front of two large wooden doors presumably leading to a balcony, an intricate throne of an equally dark wood loomed atop a dais. Sitting the throne and wearing a deep red doublet with the twelve flowers and fox of his house on his breast was Alester Florent, Lord of Brightwater Keep. By Hippolyta's estimate, he appeared to be in the region of sixty years of age. Despite such, he was well-groomed and still rather handsome. His salt-and-pepper hair fell in strings to his shoulders, connecting to a beard above his prominent ears. Eyes rimmed by wrinkled skin and the colour of rich soil gazed calmly down at the women and man before him. Having faced dozens, if not hundreds of lords and royals in her time, Hippolyta held his gaze easily.

"So you are the leader of the fleet of strangers landing on my shores." He stated evenly. His eyes roved over the four Tamrielics, lingering on the provocatively dressed Empress in hopes of provoking a reaction.

"And you are clearly Alester Florent, lord of Brightwater Keep." Hippolyta countered with a ghost of a smile to contrast the bold and harsh tone of her Empress voice. His blink and tightened lips must have meant Florent was taken off guard by the strength of her counter-statement. _Perhaps he expected me to be ignorant of who he was, or be the first to give up footing._ As he shot a quick glare at Imry and his eleven companions, Hippolyta pressed her advantage. "No doubt you want to know who we are and why we have sailed here."

"I would, in fact. Your ships have caused no small amount of panic along the shores, the Shield Islands and up the Mander." Florent said coolly. Hippolyta allowed a mild grimace.

"I do apologise, but after so long at sea, my people were eager to stand on solid ground again. It may not mean much now, but you have my word that we have not come to this land with ill intent." She cleared her throat. "I am Hippolyta Septim the First, Empress of Tamriel, Magister of the Great House Telvanni and former General of the Free Army of Tamriel." She said with a small nod. Florent and his attending court and servants went quiet upon learning that they were in the presence of a ruling monarch, even though the name of the country...

"I am unfamiliar with this 'Tamriel'." Florent admitted, the name rolling off his tongue oddly. Hippolyta nodded.

"Understandable. Few can venture to the other end of the globe, and even fewer can make it back to bring tales of lands unknown. To this day, most of Tamriel's populous still believes Westeros to be a myth, if they have even heard of it at all. Let it be known though, that it is a land as wondrous and diverse as its people." She extolled, gesturing for her company to continue with their introductions.

"I am Tonje Fire-Eater, born of the province Skyrim, and General of the Third Imperial Legion. 'Tis an honour to make your acquaintance, Lord Florent." Fire-Eater announced with a bow. Florent allowed a small smile before gazing at the two shorter figures in vastly different armours, both wearing half-capes with shields protecting crowns sewn in.

"Darioth is my name, Lord Florent. I am a ranger of the province Valenwood, and Praetorian Guard to Her Excellency Hippolyta Septim." The Bosmer waxed poetic as he was oft inclined to do, finishing with a flourishing bow.

"I am Lena Blackfire, alumnus of the College of Winterhold of Skyrim, expert battlemage and Praetorian Guard to Her Excellency." Blackfire said shortly, surprising many as a female voice came from behind the armour directly out of a story used to scare small children.

"You seem to place a great deal of faith in women to protect you, Your Excellency." Florent noted. He was about to say something else until Hippolyta cut him off.

"Twice has a disparaging comment been made in regards to the people of the Legion being women, or I myself being a leader. Let me make one thing abundantly clear to you Lord Florent: In Tamriel, there are no expectations placed upon anyone to confine themselves to a specific set of roles. We are from a different country, so why should it be unusual that we go about our lives differently?" She said harshly, slanted eyes narrowed into slits and her lips pressed together in a disapproving frown. It was a look she had honed over her long lifespan, and more than one person had shrank away in fear when she directed it at them. Alester Florent was no exception, as his eyes widened and he held up a hand placatingly.

"Apologies Your Excellency, I was... narrow-minded in my observations." He said by way of apology, taking up the honourific used by the Praetorians. Hippolyta's face did not budge. "I am an old man, and we of Westeros have been entrenched in our traditions for thousands of years. To have a company of warriors who hold dear values contrary to our own land upon our shores is quite jarring." He explained. Knowing that having deep-seated beliefs stirred abruptly could incite confusion, fear and anger, as she had experienced with the Nords of Skyrim and even herself, she let her severe look lessen just a mite.

"Well said, Lord Florent. But let us not talk of our entrenched beliefs any longer, lest our tongues grow hot enough that we might spit fire. No doubt you wish to know why I have come here and brought a Legion of troops with me." She stated before a small inhalation, preparing to deliver her cover.

"I have traveled here so I might open relations with the ruler of Westeros and all sundry. Perhaps if the Nine are generous, we might have a trade treaty forged and signed whilst I am here. No doubt my people will find your wonders fascinating, and yours will find ours fascinating as well." She said with some small 'hope' injected into her voice. It seemed her answer was unexpected.

"That is all?" Ser Imry blurted. "With an army so large, one would have thought you came to conquer and plunder."

Hippolyta had to laugh. "The Third Legion and Fourth Fleet sail with me as protection from a land I know nothing about, and I have no interest in bringing a second kingdom of subjects half the world away under my rule, Ser Imry. To manage nine provinces and keep the peace among twelve million people is taxing enough." She said to the amusement of her fellows and the Florents. Alester actually smiled. Perhaps she had him convinced?

"I cannot speak for His Grace Robert Baratheon, but I for one would welcome a treaty with folk as interesting as yourself, Your Excellency. As clemency for my rather ill-thought welcome, I name you my guests and extend you both my hospitality and protection in the sight of the Seven. So long as you are beneath my roof, no harm shall befall you." He boldly proclaimed. "You and your subjects must be famished after such a long journey. If it please Your Excellency, I invite you to dine at my table this evening so that we might learn a little more about each other." He added. Surprised and just a little apprehensive of his change of heart, Hippolyta nodded with a small smile regardless.

"You honour us, Lord Florent. We accept your invitation, and in turn offer our thanks." She said with a nod. Fire-Eater, Darioth and Blackfire each gave a half bow in respect.

* * *

The supper laid before them was quite splendid. It was not on the level of the banquets served in the Imperial Palace, but Hippolyta would not dare make that comparison aloud, not when these men who had no reason to do so were giving her a chance. She likewise found herself as thirsty for knowledge as Alester, leading them to trade questions and answers as they supped on roasted boar, bowls of salad, deep brown bread and enough wine to drown a dozen men. Further down the table, Fire-Eater, Darioth and Blackfire- now with her helm removed, bearing her lightly-tanned face, vibrant green eyes and mahogany red hair- were holding court with the knights and squires and other family members of House Florent.

"Begging your pardon Your Excellency, but I have noticed that you look quite different from your subordinates, and even they do not look similar." Alester began cautiously. "Is this true with all residents of Tamriel?"

"It is, Lord Florent. As of now, Tamriel is home to ten distinct races, divided into three categories: Men, elves and beast-folk. General Fire-Eater is one example of a mannish race. She is a Nord, the people of Skyrim who revel in frost and combat. Few people can match the ferocity of an enraged Nord on the battlefield, and Tonje is no exception. Darioth is a Bosmer, a Wood Elf. Less cultured persons would call them 'Forest People'. They hail from the jungles of Valenwood, the most untamed province in Tamriel, having rejected the civilised world of our ancestors in favour of embracing nature. Millennia in the forests have moulded them into scouts and archers without peer. Lena is a mixed breed, born of a Bosmer father and a Nord mother. This blending of blood leaves her less hearty and hale than a Nord, and not as agile as a Bosmer, yet her spirit more than compensates for such." Hippolyta explained one at a time before taking a gulp of delicious wine.

"And you, Your Excellency?" Alester prompted gently.

"I am an Altmer, a High Elf. We are one of the oldest living races in Tamriel, and our influence is the foundation of the Empires both past and present. To this day, no other race can match us in terms of magickal aptitude." She said. To Alester's right, his wife Melara of House Crane frowned.

"You doubt my claims, Lady Florent." Hippolyta stated. "I assume that magick is not so prevalent here in Westeros?" As she asked, her left hand lit up with orange light. Alester and Melara flinched in alarm, but their expressions rapidly shifted to interest as a spare knife shot into the air and began floating towards Hippolyta. As the Empress caught the knife, the light in her palm shifted from orange to green. Glancing at the utensil intently, the green light in Hippolyta's hand began to crawl over it even as she tossed it into the air. After one rotation, she caught the transmuted knife. Where it had once been made of iron, gleaming gold now comprised it. Alester and Melara were flabbergasted.

"Such spells are only a fraction of my magickal skill." She stated, pushing the gold knife towards the husband and wife. As Alester inspected the knife, Melara found her voice.

"You assume correctly Your Excellency. Magick has never been common in Westeros, even before the dragons died out." She said.

Hippolyta had been about to eat a cut of boar when the word 'dragons' was uttered. She abruptly set her fork down and leveled her gaze at Melara, unable to conceal all of her interest.

"Dragons, you say." She drawled slowly. "What do you know of dragons, Lady Florent?" She asked.

"They were creatures originating from across the Narrow Sea, in Old Valyria to the far east. They were fire made flesh, with breath hot enough to melt stone and steel, and could grow large enough to swallow a mammoth whole." At this, Hippolyta blinked. While she had seen, spoken to and fought with many dragons, she had never seen one big enough to eat a mammoth in one bite. The largest dragon she had met was Lotvedgram, whose tremendous shadow struck fear into anyone who saw it, and could fit his jaws around a giant quite easily. Melara must not have seen her expression, for she continued.

"They were used as mounts by House Targaryen, allowing them to conquer and unite Westeros nearly three hundred years ago and bring forth a dynasty that lasted nearly as long. 'Twas said that they had dragon blood in their veins, which allowed them to tame the beasts." She elaborated. It was then that Melara saw the signs that Hippolyta was pondering something. "What troubles you Your Excellency?" She asked.

"What you say of these Targaryens is rather... disquieting, Lady Florent." She admitted. "To tame a dragon would require tremendous force of will, and if an entire family is granted this power..." Thoughts of Miraak flashed through her mind, making her wince as a stab wound just under her left breast tingled. "Do they still exercise this power through control of their vassals or enemies?" She asked. Alester and Melara shared a look.

"No record of any Targaryen controlling men exists Your Excellency, and even if it did, you needn't worry about them doing so, for their line died out nearly fifteen years ago." Alester reassured her. Hippolyta felt her shoulders unclench in relief upon knowing that she would not have to contend with one or more persons who could bend others to their will, in addition to the White Death and a Daedric Prince.

"You seem quite interested in the dragons and Targaryens Your Excellency." Alester observed. "Not to mention your knowledge of taming the beasts." He added. As Melara joined her husband in gazing at the Empress, she inwardly cursed herself for saying too much and fished about for how to allay the Florents' suspicions.

"... Let us say that I have always had a certain... interest in dragons and the associated lore. As I iterated before, Tamriel is much different from Westeros." She finally said before steering their conversation back to lighter topics. While wary, the Florents let the matter drop and began to ask about the provinces of Tamriel. They found that Cyrodiil, the province from which Hippolyta looked out on her subjects was much like the Reach. They likened King's Landing, the seat of the Seven Kingdoms' power to the Imperial City, but after describing Highgarden, the seat of House Tyrell, the Wardens of the South, they conceded that it was more akin to the heart of the Empire.

"Without a doubt, word of your arrival has reached the Tyrells. I would suggest that you make yourself known to them Your Excellency, lest they falsely presume your Legion to be hostile invaders." Alester stated, prompting a nod from Hippolyta before they continued. The Starks of Winterfell brought comparisons to the Nords, both for their heartiness and their reveling in the freezing north. The Lannisters, Wardens of the West, conjured images of crosses between the silver-tongued Imperials, the ambition of the Bretons and the slipperiness of the Khajiit. Oddly fitting, considering their standard was a lion. Of particular note was the Florents' interest in the Argonians and the Khajiit. To know of the existence of cats and lizards with the intelligence of man and the ability to walk on two legs must have been not dissimilar to being told an old children's fable was true. Continuing along the vein of fables, their subjects of worship eventually came to light.

"You worship a god with seven faces?" Hippolyta asked.

"Essentially, yes. Each face represents one or more aspects of the circle of life. And what can you tell us of your god or gods, Your Excellency?" Alester asked.

"While dependent upon what race you ask, the primary pantheon of the Empire revolves around the worship of the Aedra, or the Nine Divines. Each of these gods represent one or more aspects of life, much like your Seven." Hippolyta explained with a small grin. "Would you care to compare?"

"Of course. The Father is considered the most powerful of the Seven, the judge of the dead, and represents the virtues of justice and law. He is the subject of prayer to all whose sons or brothers or fathers are leaving to war, or to lords who must dispense with justice." He began. Hippolyta looked down in thought for a scant few seconds.

"Two of our Divines are comparable to the Father: First there is Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time. To we elves, he is known as Auri-El, King of the Aldmer. He represents endurance, invincibility and legitimacy. The second is Stendarr, the God of Mercy and Righteous Might. It was he who granted the first laws to men and elves, and is the patron of law-abiding citizens and the Legion." Hippolyta countered, motioning for Alester or Melara to continue.

"The Mother is companion to the Father, and represents motherhood, love and nurturing. It is in the sight of these two faces that men and women are married." Melara said. Hippolyta smiled just a hint.

"Our Mother is Mara, the Goddess of love, the source of all compassion and giver of fertility. In her eyes are marriages performed and blessed." Hippolyta said.

"The Warrior represents valour, strength in battle and the protection of the innocent. Knights will always pray to him before a battle." Alester continued.

"Our counterpart is Talos, the God of War, and He who was once the mortal man Tiber Septim, Unifier of Tamriel and founder of the Third Empire." She would have continued had Alester not interjected.

"Septim? You claim to have the blood of a God?" He asked in disbelief.

"All elves can trace their lineage back to the Aldmer, who were once the Ehlnofey- the original Tamrielics- who are of the loins of the Aedra. But as to my having the blood of Talos, I highly doubt that I may claim him as an ancestor. What I have come to believe was that Akatosh saw fit to gift me with his blood as a necessary gift to stand firm against the many evils I have faced. I am a Septim by creation, not by bloodline." Hippolyta explained. "But that is simply my interpretation, and I fear that I may never know the truth about my connection to Talos. Returning to our original line of questioning, Tiber Septim became a god after conquering all of Tamriel, thus ending a centuries long war for control of the Ruby Throne, the seat of the Empire's power." She finished, lifting her hand and prompting the Florents to continue.

"Yes, well, where were we...? Oh yes! The Smith is the representation of crafting, commerce, work and creativity. He is prayed to by builders and smiths who must endeavour to complete their tasks." Melara restarted their comparison of their respective deities somewhat shakily, clearly not expecting the bombshell Hippolyta had just dropped.

"The Smith is akin to Zenithar, the God of wealth, labour and commerce. He is the patron of the honest worker, and his priests preach that through hard work and honest profit in place of war, peace will shine through." The Empress said.

"The Maiden is the aspect of beauty and virtuosity. Mothers will often pray to her to protect their children from the trials and tribulations of the world." Melara continued.

"While she does not represent virtuosity in the way you have wrought it to be, our counterpart is Dibella, the Goddess of beauty, women and passion. While similar to Mara, her worshippers often show their devotion to Dibella through art, the advent of women and acts of love and compassion, if you understand my meaning." Hippolyta said with a wink. Knowing exactly what the Empress was talking about, Melara turned pink and Alester fought to keep a smile from his face.

"The Crone is the aspect of wisdom and guidance. Maesters and pilgrims will often seek her aid if they desire to be led unto a clear path." He said.

"Julianos is our Divine facsimile, representing logic, wisdom and literature. He was originally incarnated in the Nordic religion as Jhunal, the father of language and mathematics. He has also been tied to magick, and as such is mostly revered by mages." Hippolyta riposted.

"And last is the Stranger. He is less favoured than the other Six, as he is the aspect of death and the unknown, although some outcasts or exiles deign to pray to him." Here Alester's face became grim, as though the Stranger would appear and enact his dark will for the man speaking ill of him.

"Ours is Arkay, son of Akatosh and Mara, the God of the cycle of life and death, burials and funeral rites. His blessing is sought for those souls who have passed from the mortal plane." Hippolyta looked up in thought as another less benevolent deity came to mind. "Although a more literal comparison would be Sithis. He is a primal force representative of the Void, the darkness from which all things that are spring from. He is known also as the Dread Father, patron of the order of assassins called the Dark Brotherhood, and as such is associated with death and murder." Hippolyta made a small grimace as she recalled her first encounter with a member of the bloodthirsty murderers. The blade had been coated in a poison that kept her wounds from healing, and had almost killed her.

"Our ninth Divine, whom I see you do not have a counterpart to, is Kynareth. She is the Goddess of the heavens, the wind, rain, and the one who taught mortals to speak. For her association with the weather, sailors often pray to her before a voyage." Hippolyta explained. For a moment, Alester and Melara were silent.

"It seems we are not so different after all." Melara said with a smile. "But earlier, you said that these Nine were the primary pantheon of the Empire. Are there more Gods worshipped throughout Tamriel?" She added.

"... In many ways, yes. Many other deities hold sway over the lives of Tamriel's denizens, not all of them good. There is another sect nearly as prominent as the court of the Nine, and embodies the chaos necessary to counteract the Aedra's order. Their followers are the cultists of the seventeen Daedric Princes." She said with a dark edge looming in her voice.

"From the way you speak of these 'princes', descriptors such as demon Gods come to mind." Melara ventured, having heard the edge in Hippolyta's voice.

Hippolyta nodded and opened her mouth to begin a tale of darkness and manipulation, but the door to the dining hall banging open cut her monologue off at the neck. "A story for another day perhaps," she said quietly as a frantic page rushed into the room.

"Begging your pardon m'lord, but the beacon fires have come alight once more." He uttered breathlessly. Alester sighed.

"I thought I had already ordered word be sent out to the coast that the ships from the west were not sailing to plunder, boy." He said sternly. The page shook his head.

"It is not Her Excellency's ships that have caused the firs to be lit m'lord. Greenshield was the first to light their beacon m'lord." He explained.

Alester's eyes narrowed. "Ironmen." He snarled. Ignorant of what exactly he meant, Hippolyta fixed him with a mildly curious stare as she snapped her fingers loudly. Immediately, Fire-Eater and her Praetorians snapped their heads over to the Empress.

"Who are these ironmen that incite you to such a rage Lord Florent?" She asked.

"Bloody pirates is what they are." He spat. "Men of the Iron Islands to the far north. They follow the Old Way, which instructs them to only keep that which they reave and plunder, or loot from the corpses of men they slay." He explained, much to the disgust of the Tamrielics

"Fair guests, I apologise, but our supper must be cut short, lest these savages pillage the mouth of the Mander." He apologised with a bow. "Ser Imry, see our guests returned to their beach safely." He ordered. Imry bowed and made for the four, but Hippolyta held up her hand.

"That will not be necessary Ser Imry." She said firmly. "Lord Florent, if it please you, muster your finest archers and have them mount up. I shall have them take up spots on my ships to help destroy these ironmen." She said. The hall went quiet as the Florents digested exactly what the Empress had just offered.

"I beg your pardon Your Excellency?" Alester asked, unsure of whether he had heard Hippolyta correctly. "Why would you risk the lives of your men for people you do not know, much less care for?" He asked. Hippolyta, while put off at his presumption that she did not care for the Westerosi, grinned in a fashion absolutely feral.

"I mean to ingratiate myself and my subjects to the people of Westeros, lord Florent. What better way is there to forge a bond than by assisting you in destroying people who exploit the vulnerable and prevent the deaths of countless good men?" She asked as candidly as she could.

After he digested what had just been said, an equally savage grin lit up Alester Florent's face. "I am liking you more and more every minute, Your Excellency."

* * *

**Ha ha, cliffhanger! I'm sorry about the lack of action that I promised, but it'll be in the next chapter! DON'T LYNCH ME!**

**Also, I apologise for the wait in between chapters two and three. I've been distracted by the Heists in GTA V, when I can actually get three other people to join my party, that is. If any of you want to make a couple of phat stackz with me, my Xbox One gamertag is Dirty Reidman. Hit me up, and please:**

**1) Tell me whether or not you liked this chapter**

**2) Tell me what you SPECIFICALLY liked about this chapter**

**3) Tell me what you DIDN'T like about this chapter**

**4) Recommend a suitable improvement**

* * *

**BONUS: OC Submission**

**Dearest readers, I am in need of your help. As I wrote, Hippolyta Septim is sailing to Westeros with 6 000 Legionnaires, 100 Praetorian Guards and 800 sailors. I may be creative, but even I can't come up with that many new characters for some parts of the story featuring them. That's where you come in. If you wish to see a character of your creation appear in my story, please submit him/her with the following details:**

**Category of submission (Legionnaire or Praetorian or Sailor)**

**Character's name**

**Character's race (And place of birth) (NOTE: Mixed breeds are accepted)**

**Character's appearance (NOTE: The more creative you are with their appearance, the more likely I am to use them)**

**Character's Personality and Past (Growing up, previous experience, previous hardships, personality type and quirks, subject(s) of worship, etc.) (NOTE: The more creative you are with their personality, the more likely I am to use them)**

**Character's Attributes (Fighting style, armour/clothing choice, weapon(s) choice/magical talents. etc.) (Please be as creative as possible; do not simply adhere to the weapons seen in the Elder Scrolls series)**

**And finally, YOU MUST SUBMIT YOUR REQUESTS IN THE FORM OF A PRIVATE MESSAGE, OR THEY WILL NOT BE CONSIDERED. Submissions will be considered valid until April 28, any submitted afterwards will be rejected.**

**Divines smile upon you,**

**DR**


	4. Iron Breaker (edited)

**One Last War**

**By: Dirty Reid**

**Chapter 4: Iron Breaker**

* * *

Dunstan Drumm, Head of House Drumm, Lord of Old Wyk and captain of the _Thunderer_ sneered as he watched the enormous bonfires burning along the shores of the Reach. The Green Men quailed at the sight of their sloops and longships, squealing like frightened livestock for their lords and knights to come and protect them. Oh a few would put up a fight certainly, but from old Dunstan, they would only be worthy of slightly less contempt as Red Rain, his Valyrian steel blade, tasted their life blood.

As of late, those opportunities had been diminishing, loath as he was to admit it. At four-and-eighty, Dunstan remained as hearty as a man with twenty fewer years behind him, but even that left him somewhat limited. He would fervently deny that the persistent chill of the sea and the Iron Islands left his joints aching, and even short practices with his sons Denys and Donnel left him winded, but in his most private moments he could not refuse to face the facts any more. He had lead only three of the eleven raids he had performed in the past five years, and his sons' _Gale_ and _Dread_ had headed the remaining charges. He strongly suspected that this one would be one of his last sails before he retired to the chair of Old Wyk to reflect on his long life of raping, reaving and plundering before joining the Drowned God's hall for eternity.

"Captain!" Called Dunstan's first mate, rousing the big bald captain from his musings. "The Green Men approach... and they brought friends!" Dunstan frowned as he made for the bow of the _Thunderer_. He opened his telescope and peered forward, searching for the 'friends' his first mate spoke of. He did not have to look far.

The fleet of Old Wyk was a formidable force. The twelve longships and forty-eight war sloops were not as grand as the hundred longships of the Iron Fleet, but there was a good reason for such: The Iron Fleet was meant for waging war, whereas his fleet was used for hit-and-run tactics. Quickly snatching up treasures and thralls, killing a few men and leaving before reinforcements could arrive was an art he had perfected. He had in the past skirmished with the fleets of Bear Island, Lannisport, the Shield Islands, even the Redwyne, and emerged less worse for wear than his foes. As Dunstan looked upon the unknowns sailing with the fleet of the Shield Islands, he felt a vestige of uncertainty stirring within his heart.

The standard complement of eight war dromonds and thirty-two longships was easily dealt with. The ironborn longships were slightly smaller than the dromonds, but far more manoeuvrable, allowing them to outpace their Shield Island counterparts or dart into range, fire their scorpion siege weapons and retreat. Their war sloops were more or less equal in all aspects, but Dunstan's superior numbers gave him the advantage.

Larger than the ships of the Green Men, Dunstan spied ten unknowns among their challengers. The eight smaller ships bore slight resemblances to the war dromonds of the Green Men, but were smaller by half. They also seemed to be more reliant on three large and billowing sails, the foremost bearing the sigil of a black dragon in flight. That particular standard gave Dunstan pause, flashbacks of skirmishes with Targaryen ships featuring in his mind, but this dragon had only one head. It may have been because his sight was fading, but Dunstan could swear that he saw siege weapons mounted on the bow as well as on the sides like some thorny beast. A second larger ship loomed behind the eight, larger by a half. The key differences lay in its size and the addition of a second weapons deck. There was something else breaking the horizon just behind...

Dunstan Drumm actually lowered his telescope as his mouth fell open in shock. The tenth ship of unknown origins was absolutely _tremendous_. As he looked through his telescope again, the scale of it became more apparent. The second class of ship could not have been half its size. Its shape made Dunstan think of an overturned dromond, or perhaps a giant blade. The reaver in him salivated a little as the sun caught along the golden plating that must have covered the entire vessel. Something like that ship was exactly what he needed to quell the whispers of the younger captains saying that he was growing too old to lead the fleet of Old Wyk.

"Orders, captain?" Asked the first mate. A good lad, excellent with a blade, if a little cautious. Dunstan grinned as he unsheathed Red Rain.

"Keep true; they may have larger ships, but the wind and numbers favour us. Once we are in range, order all sloops to converge on the largest ship. Break their back, and they will all scatter." He stated, standing a little taller. It was true that the wind favoured the ironborn, granting them speed and manoeuvrability, but what old Dunstan did not say was that he held some small amount of doubt that their numbers would prevail.

"Aye, sir. FULL SPEED AHEAD!" The first mate yelled, his voice bouncing across the water. To the bow and starboard side of the _Thunderer_, the oars fanning from the _Gale _and the _Dread_ began to move faster, propelling the two longships up towards the vanguard of the fleet. The anticipation of the upcoming battle was invigorating, and Dunstan felt some of his old energy returning. As minutes passed and the two fleets closed the gap, all of the ironborn began to hear some form of rhythm pulsing like a heartbeat across the water. Once the ships of the Green Men and their friends were nearly in weapon range, the mystery surrounding the beat was lifted: It was a war song, being shouted to the heavens by the sailors aboard the ships of their foes.

_"Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin,_

_Wah dein vokul mahferaak ahst vaal!_

_Ahrk fin norok paal graan, fod nust hon zindro zaan,_

_Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal!"_

As the distance between them grew ever smaller, Dunstan could localize the singing to the foreign boats.

_"Huzrah nu, kul do od,_

_Wah aan bok, lingrah vod_

_Ahrk fin tey, baziik fun,_

_Do fi~n ge~in!"_

_"Wo lost fron wah ney dov_

_Ahrk fin reyliik do jul,_

_Voth aan suleyk_

_Wah ronit faal krei~n!"_

Dunstan's heart had begun to race, the song having stirred a primal fear within his very soul. But for the life of him, he could not fathom the reason.

_"Ahrk fin zul, rok drey kod, nau tol morokei frod,_

_Rul lot Taazokaan motaad voth kein!_

_Sahrot Thu'um, med aan tuz, vey zeim hokoron pah,_

_Ol fin Dovahkiin komeyt ok rein!"_

_"Ahrk fin Kel lost prodah, do ved viing ko fin krah,_

_Tol fod zeymah win kein meyz fundein!_

_Alduin, feyn do jun, kruziik vokun staadnav,_

_Voth aan bahhlok wah diivon fin lein!"_

With the telescope to his eye, Dunstan spotted something on the prow of the great golden ship. It was a warrior, dressed all in white armour. They became larger and more visible as the smaller ships parted to allow the golden behemoth to head the charge.

_"Nuz aan sul, fent alok, fod fin vul dovah nok,_

_Fen kos nahlot mafaeraak ahrk ru~z!_

_Paaz Keizaal fen kos stin nol bein Alduin jot,_

_Dovahkiin kos fin saviik do muz!"_

Just when he believed he could be surprised no further, the white warrior had drawn close enough for Dunstan to make out finer details, and come to an unexpected revelation: It was a woman on the prow, with a sword at her belt, a red sash swaying in the wind and a beautiful equally white shield in her left hand. The ship would make a fine prize, and she a fine salt wife.

_"Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin,_

_Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!_

_Ahrk fin norok paal graan fod nust hon zindro zaan,_

_DOVAHKIIN FAH HIN KOGAAN MU DRAAL__!"_

As the war song ended in a roar, the golden ship had entered weapon range. It was close enough for Dunstan to see the jewels in the circlet upon the woman's head, and the smirk on her face as she pointed her blade, which was composed of some tan-coloured metal, straight at the longship at the centre of the fleet. She was forced to raise her shield as a few arrows from the _Dread_ were loosed, each one clattering harmlessly off the white metal and the deck of the ship. As the archers began to aim once again, Dunstan became curious as the woman inhaled deeply. _What does she intend to do, scream us into submission_? He wondered with amusement.

How right he was.

Her cry echoed across the roiling waves of the ocean even more so than the war song her people had been singing. "_YOL - TOOR - SHUL_!"

What happened next was something Dunstan would never have predicted. As she roared the strange words, an orange glow grew from her mouth. As she finished the three words, a gargantuan plume of fire spewed forth. It had to be as wide as her ship, and it barreled forward impossibly fast. A cry of despair escaped Dunstan as the _Dread _was almost completely incinerated, its sailors not even having time to scream as their armour, flesh and bones melted like candle wax. The pillar of fire roared on, incinerating sloops and collapsing longships as it passed, leaving naught but ash and a few scraps of cloth in its wake. The ships to the rear of the fleet managed to swerve and avoid most of the burning cloud of death, some only suffering burns to their aft quarters or losing a sail. The gout of fire began to wane and eventually died after rushing for over three hundred metres. As the shock stared to wear away, if only by a hair, Dunstan surveyed the carnage wrought by that fire-breathing woman. Those three words had claimed sixteen sloops and five longships. Nine sloops and two longships were on fire, yet still afloat. The _Dread_ and his younger son Donnel numbered among those who perished, but the _Gale _had escaped with only being licked by the flames. With a ragged breath Dunstan shifted to glare at the golden ship and the woman still standing on the prow, silently vowing to make her beg for death before sending her to the Drowned God.

* * *

_Yes_! _Give them a taste of fire_! Hippolyta's dragon soul roared in savage glee as the rather pitiful-looking ships withered and died under the inferno that was her Shout.

"Ready on the ballistae!" Shouted Captain Myrra Horatiu, a cry that was echoed across all three weapon decks of the _Dream Crusher_. Sailors and Praetorians skittered about, winding back the scaled down siege weapons and inserting bolts the size of tree branches into them. The broadhead bolts were as simple as their name implied. They were giant crossbow bolts with wide heads meant to be fired into the body of the ship to cause structural damage. Unlike their counterparts, they could be fired at ranges reaching five hundred metres and still hit their targets. The pitch bolts were small pots of oil fused to the shafts and had been enchanted to emit a burst of flame on impact, spreading the flaming liquid across ship or fortress. The circular pots on their heads left them less aerodynamic and cut back their range to two to three hundred metres. The scattershot bolts were nine smaller projectiles combined into one, and would separate after reaching a certain velocity. Their smaller size made them more easily swayed by the wind and gravity, and required them to be within one hundred metres of their target.

"What in the seven hells was that?!" Exclaimed one of the Florent archers. Hippolyta smirked ferally.

"Just one of my many, many powers, boy!" She boasted as she made to address Captain Horatiu.

"Orders, Your Excellency?" She asked.

"Take us up the centre of their formation. Anything we cannot smash can be shot or captured. Admiral Catranian and the _Steel Heart _will bring up the rear to mop up any ships still afloat, and the frigates will flank to prevent any escapes. Operators!" Hippolyta barked. "Ready harpoons on the port bow ballistae, I want that longship tethered!" She ordered, pointing at the dull brown-grey ship in the centre of the remaining fleet of ironmen. It was larger than the rest, but one could only tell if they looked carefully. Hippolyta's eagle-like vision had allowed her to identify it as the flagship long before the average sailor could. And on that ship, an older man was looking balefully at her. Unfazed, she picked up a hook as three operators set about loading and aiming two harpoon bolts at the ironmen's flagship. The harpoon bolts were attached to spools of rope to allow rapid ship-to-ship boarding or a quick getaway if the soldiers or sailors needed to evacuate hostile territory.

"On high!" Horatiu warned as arrows began to fly at them. As the iron-tipped rain of death started to fall, something jarred the ship and sent several men and women careening. Hippolyta winced as a handful of arrows impacted her Legionnaires, two fatally so.

"What in Oblivion was that?!" Asked a Legionnaire.

"Enemy siege weapon! Archers, mages, lay down some fire on the starboard! Operators, aim... fire!" With a loud _twang_, the harpoon bolt flew from its launcher, the operators feeding line so the projectile would not fall short of its target. The harpoon flew true and pierced the body of its target somewhere in the region of the upper decks.

"Good shot, men. Zhaga, Blackfire! To me!" She ordered. The two women, almost comical in their height differences, strutted forward to attend their leader. Unlike most of the Legion, the two Praetorians' armour suits allowed them to stand in the hail of arrows as though it was naught but rain. Only arrowheads of similar make to their armours or harder could pierce the Orsimer and Daedric plate. Hippolyta, who had elected to wear her much lighter creamy white ancient Falmer armour suit, had to rely on the divine shield of Auri-El for protection from arrows.

"Grab a hook and your wits ladies, we're taking this floating hunk of junk the old-fashioned way!" She shouted as she made for the prow of the ship. As the younger women followed her, the archers and battlemages among the sailors, Legionnaires and Praetorians focused a wave of suppressing fire onto the ironmen aboard their speared target.

"You have your opening Excellency, go!" Horatiu shouted, waving her hand and burning up an arrow that had been about to hit her. Hippolyta nodded before turning and sprinting for the ballista which anchored the harpoon. As she ran up the Dwemer metal structure to the surprise of the operators, she took a flying leap. As gravity began to take hold of the Empress, she stuck her hook out and caught the harpoon line, zipping along it at a fast clip. A few arrows flew at her, but she kept her body and legs tucked behind Auri-El's shield, and remained safe. She felt the line vibrate twice as Lena and Zhaga secured their hooks and followed her. As she closed the distance to the timber hull of the ironmen's flagship, she poked her head out.

"_Fus - Ro_!" She Shouted. The Thu'um, while incomplete, still had enough power to smash a hole in the hull the size of a troll. Pumping her legs, Hippolyta unhooked herself and shot into the breach. Her shoulder roll was less graceful than she would have liked, but she had no time to dwell on her form as she drew Freedom and quickly eyed her surroundings. Hammocks, small chests and various effects held up by nets told her she was in the barracks, which was mercifully empty. She moved forward a few steps as Lena came rushing in, reaching to the small of her back to unsheathe one of her Daedric daggers, and readying a frost spell in her right hand. Zhaga followed closely, with her axe at the ready.

"We are fighting close quarters here, ladies. Mind your space, check your spells and watch each other's backs. Move out!" She commanded quietly, keeping her shield in front of her and Freedom poking out from the side. Lena came second, keeping an eye out for anyone out of sword range and ready to hurl a bolt of lightning. Zhaga brought up the rear. Because the longship was designed to carry raiders and offload them quickly, it had far fewer decks than even a frigate. It was more comparable to a galley, the oldest serving ship in the Imperial Navy. While that meant the three warrior women would have less ground to cover, it also meant they would have more hostiles to deal with.

The first was a man who had come to investigate the hole blown in the hull. He came in from the left and flinched slightly as he beheld them. He wasn't expecting to find people on the ship, much less three hostiles armed to the teeth. His position was a boon to Hippolyta, as she only needed to pivot her body and deliver a single upward thrust. The dragon bone blade cut through his jaw and skull like paper. The Chaos enchantment on Freedom caused him to freeze completely, and when Hippolyta kicked him to the ground, he shattered into hundreds of pieces. Their second challenge came from an ironman waiting in the shadows. From behind a crate he emerged with naught but the faint friction of leather to give him away ready to wedge a dagger in Zhaga's neck. While ordinary men might have missed him and lost one of their numbers, the three women were not (entirely) mannish. Their long and pointed ears were not just for show, after all. As the man raised his dagger to strike, the Orsimer woman's arm shot up to stop his strike dead, and she followed with a knee to his chest. As he stumbled she seized his head with her free hand and proceeded to slam it into the wooden crate he had used as cover multiple times until the wood finally gave way. Hippolyta watched impassively before moving on. Lena continued to stare.

"What?" Zhaga asked somewhat defensively. "He's a pirate. He preys on the weak." She reasoned. The shorter half-breed blinked behind her helmet.

"I suppose," she muttered as unbidden memories of her past surfaced. But she did not waver as she followed her Empress.

Their third opponent was far less of a surprise. He came barreling down the stairs from the weapon deck, sword in hand and charged Hippolyta. He had not made it five steps before a dagger-sized chunk of ice _whooshed_ past Hippolyta and embedded itself in his throat. With a pitiful gurgle, the pirate clutched at the hunk of ice in his throat as blood trickled around it. What vestige of his strength waned quickly as he fell to the deck and ceased to move. Hippolyta did not need to turn around to know that it was Lena's hand crackling with magicka.

"Nicely done, Lena." She said quietly before bounding up the stairs, her Praetorians in hot pursuit. As predicted, the weapon deck was cluttered with soldiers manning the siege weapons and they were spotted immediately. With shouts aplenty, the ironmen charged the three women, all manner of weapons in hand. Their battle cries paled in comparison to Zhaga's roar as the Orsimer practically flew at her foes with Hippolyta and Lena at her side.

Ducking low, Hippolyta bowled a sailor over with her shield and swung Freedom to bat away a sword coming at her. The tempered dragon bone shattered the iron blade and stunned its wielder, leaving him open to be beheaded on her backswing. As a burly man covered in hair and rusty mail raised a battleaxe over his head, Hippolyta used her momentum to lash out and kick him in the upper pelvic region. She would have aimed higher, but her armour and the ten years since her last challenging battle had limited her somewhat. Nonetheless, he lurched forward in pain before Hippolyta smashed the lower rim of her shield into his face, knocking out a handful of yellowed and chipped teeth. Hippolyta counted her blessings as the ship chose the second after she had struck him to lurch, no doubt thanks to the _Dream Crusher_ tugging it along. The three elites kept their balance, but so did the ironmen.

"_Iiz_!" She Shouted, the icy plume freezing another ironman solid and leaving only one engaging her. She blocked a blow from his mace with her shield and countered with a strike of her own. He parried her thrust and transitioned into a backhand strike which she ducked under. She brought Freedom back as he was about to swing again, her sword's superior reach allowing her to cut his arm off just below the elbow. She drove her own elbow into his face as he screamed in agony, raising Auri-El's shield just in time to stop a mighty hammer blow that brought her to her knees regardless. As her newest challenger pushed down on her shield, she kicked the outward-facing portion of his knee joint, eliciting a yelp and throwing him off balance enough for her to kick his unarmoured chest with a strength uncharacteristic of someone with her willowy frame. She used that same strength to springboard upwards and drive Freedom through her downed foe's chest. She yanked her blade out and rolled forward just as the head of a flail crashed into her previous spot. The attacker swung it again but failed to make contact with the Empress, as the spiked ball bounced off the now-glowing shield of Auri-El. Hippolyta continued her spin and slammed her shield into the man. Even though he himself carried a driftwood shield, the energy that the divine piece of armour had stored was released as Hippolyta bashed him with it, the explosion of energy sending him flying fast and hard enough to crack one of the support beams.

Seeing that she had a moment to recover, Hippolyta quickly looked to see how her Praetorians were faring. Little Lena Blackfire was using both her Bosmeri agility to duck and weave and strafe around her foes, and her thorned and nigh indestructible Daedric armour as a weapon by using her Nordic strength to gore ironmen with her shoulders or slash at them with her wickedly clawed gauntlets. In her left hand, her Daedric dagger parried blows and bit into flesh dozens of times over. In her right, streams of ice froze flesh, shattered iron and steel and immobilized armour joints. Not far away, Zhaga gra-Torz's clunky yet brutal fighting style served her well. Like Lena, she used her strength as a weapon, breaking ribs with powerful punches, disorienting enemies by throwing them about the deck and carving out chunks of flesh with tremendous blows from her axe. Their below decks engagement ended when Lena grabbed and twisted an alarmingly young man's arm, stabbed him in the belly and chest and kicked him in the face. Nearby, Zhaga snapped off a kick to an assailant's groin, grabbing his head as he fell to his knees and violently twisting his head one-hundred-eighty degrees.

For a handful of seconds, the three women slowly breathed deeply. For the Praetorians, such a fight was considered a warm up. Recovery came quickly to them. Hippolyta however, had not been in a no-holds-barred fight for ten years, not since administering the final tests of her newest Praetorians, Altdel Oak-Sky and Volant Caedis. Certainly she had sparred with the Legion and Casiim, but there was always an element of restraint present during those engagements. She took another few seconds to catch her breath before jerking her head at the stairwell. As they ascended the stairs, their hearts buoyed at the sight of the fleet of the Iron Islands crumbling.

At the centre of it all, the _Dream Crusher_ rammed into a sloop, arrows and all manner of Destruction magicks spewing from its upper deck to augment the ballista bolts spewing from its three weapon decks. A couple of dents in the hull as well as the shafts of ballista bolts garnered mixed pride and concern from Hippolyta. Pride for the toughness of her 'baby', and concern for the time it would take to remove the bolts and re-forge the metal into place. Behind the dreadnought, the _Steel Heart_ was side by side with a longship, which had felled its aft-most mast and allowed the ironmen to board her, to Hippolyta's dismay. She could clearly see spikes of ice being thrown about like candy, courtesy of Admiral Fortas Catranian. She consoled herself knowing that so long as the Imperial Admiral drew breath, the _Steel Heart _would not fall. On the fringes of the engagement, the frigates pummeled the sloops and longships with bolts, both broadhead and pitch. Zhaga snorted and pointed to the _Valiant_, which was dragging a much smaller sloop behind it via harpoon and using it in the same fashion a warrior would wield a flail: By smashing the smaller vessel into its fellows. Interspersed among the Imperial ships, the dromonds and longships of House Florent and the Shield Islands wreaked their own havoc. But Hippolyta knew she was foolish if she believed there would not be casualties. Flaming and broken hulls of a dromond and three longships littered the water. Had the Imperial Navy not been there, she was certain that the casualties would have been worse. The frigate _Piety_ nursed several large breaches and listed to the side, and the frigate _Zealot _was afflicted with two burning sails. It was by virtue of the chaos surrounding them that they were not noticed for a few seconds. When they were, and the upper deck of iron men began to advance unto them, a strong voice called out:

"See to the green and black ones! The white one is mine!" Called a man who must have been the captain. He wore a chainmail hauberk over a red doublet, and a brooch in the shape of a skeletal hand secured a fur cloak about his shoulders. His head was bare, his leathery skin was wrinkled and his long beard was white with age. Despite such, he still moved with a certain heartiness. Hippolyta cocked an eyebrow when he drew a blade that shone bright red and held a curiously alluring ripple pattern in it. Hippolyta looked into his muddy brown eyes and blinked at the rage swimming in them. Having learned from the Redguard Grandmaster Sumbaji to "Manipulate one's opponent's emotions in battle, that rage may render them blind," Hippolyta smirked as she adopted a pose of casual arrogance.

"Should you not be drinking a cup of tea by a hearth with a nice warm blanket, old man? The hour grows late, you know." She mocked.

"You will not be laughing for long, wench. Red Rain longs to bite flesh once more, and vengeance for taking my Donnel cannot come swiftly enough." He growled, pointing 'Red Rain' at her. Hippolyta's smirk dropped into a cold mask.

"Your son chose his fate when he dared raise his blade against the Dragonborn." She uttered harshly, pointing Freedom at the captain. "As have you, old man."

With an angry growl, he started forward and opened their fight with an overhead strike quite quick for someone his age. Hippolyta blocked with her shield, and began a rotation in response to the following sideswipe. Swinging Freedom, she expected the blade to break, but he managed to stop her slash cold. With a shove, she pushed Red Rain away and swiped at his head. He ducked and aimed a slash at her legs. The blow glanced off her boot and she tried to divest him of his blade by slamming down Auri-El's shield, but he quickly withdrew. She kept him retreating with a thrust toward his head, which he parried and followed with a slice she blocked with her shield. She attempted an overhead slash and he predictably deflected it, but was unprepared for her to bring Freedom up ring pommel-first and crack him in the nose. The following opening as he staggered back was all she needed. Quickly rotating about, she slammed Auri-El's shield into the old man. While this blow had far less than the energy her shield bash down on the weapon deck had had, it was still enough to knock the captain onto his rear and drop Red Rain. Hippolyta quickly made her way to his side and booted him in the temple, rendering him unconscious to be taken prisoner later.

"REEL US IN!" She bellowed to the _Dream Crusher_, who answered with two more harpoons embedding in the hull, and slowly winding back the spools of rope they were attached to. Rolling her shield-bearing shoulder, Hippolyta charged back into the fray, unwilling to let Lena and Zhaga have all the fun.

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**Hours later...**

Lord Alester Florent thought that the Imperial camp had been a bewildering experience. Not only had its denizens managed to set up several thousand tents and erect half a handful of driftwood and stone watchtowers in less than a day, but so many odd people roamed the camp as well. The smirking 'Breton' who had greeted them, Specialist Flauvic Merindene, had seemed normal enough, but his partner had had skin as grey as ash and eyes redder than blood. Further in, a man-like brute that Merindene had called an 'Orsimer' lay back on the sand, lifting a small boulder repeatedly. Sweat rolled down his swampy green face, and as he grumbled, his large tusks moved with his mouth. Half-cat and half-lizard men and women went about among men and elves in what he learned were Legion battle dresses as well as a scant few wearing the capes of the Praetorian. Before she had left, Alester had been dumbstruck at the size of Hippolyta's personal ship, which she called a 'dreadnought', but had pushed it aside when she promised to take it, as well as a carrack, eight frigates and ten Praetorians into battle to augment the ships and archers he and the lords of the Shield Islands were sending to battle the ironmen. Privately, he doubted that few ships could truly make so much of a difference, but he reminded himself that she did not _have_ to help him if she did not want to, so he offered her his thanks regardless.

Imagine his surprise when all ten ships that Hippolyta had gone out with came prowling back to their camp. A few had broken masts and all but the _Dream Crusher_ had one or more gaping holes in their hull, but they remained largely intact. As the sailors and soldiers came ashore, many carrying wounded or dead, he could not stop his mouth from dropping open as the Empress, clad in creamy white armour and unharmed save for some gouges and scuff marks, frog-marched none other than Dunstan Drumm, Lord of Old Wyk, bloodied and broken, up to him. As she forced the old man to his knees, Alester noted that she carried Red Rain on her belt in addition to the longsword she had equipped herself with when she shipped out.

"Well, Lord Florent?" Her question brought him out of his stupor. "Would you say a broken fleet and the lord of Old Wyk as a prisoner is a good start to endearing myself to the lords of Westeros?" She asked. As his bannermen murmured excitedly and he stared down at the blood-soaked Captain Drumm, Alester felt a grin grow on his face.

"Well Your Excellency, I cannot speak for my Lord Paramount or the other minor lords... but by putting yourself and your people at risk to help save my own, I, Alester Florent, Lord of Brightwater Keep, do hereby declare you a friend of the Brightwater, and let it be known that whatever may come to pass, you shall always be welcome in my home."

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**And there you have it, Chapter 4 and the action you all craved! Was it everything you hoped it would be? Let me know in a review as you:**

**1) Tell me whether or not you liked this chapter**

**2) Tell me what you SPECIFICALLY liked about this chapter**

**3) Tell me what you DIDN'T like about this chapter**

**4) Recommend a suitable improvement**

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**BONUS: OC Submission**

**Dearest readers, I am in need of your help. As I wrote, Hippolyta Septim is sailing to Westeros with 6 000 Legionnaires, 100 Praetorian Guards and 800 sailors. I may be creative, but even I can't come up with that many new characters for some parts of the story featuring them. That's where you come in. If you wish to see a character of your creation appear in my story, please submit him/her with the following details:**

**Category of submission (Legionnaire or Praetorian or Sailor)**

**Character's name**

**Character's race (And place of birth) (NOTE: Mixed breeds are accepted; beast-folk are needed)**

**Character's appearance (NOTE: The more creative you are with their appearance, the more likely I am to use them)**

**Character's Personality and Past (Growing up, previous experience, previous hardships, personality type and quirks, subject(s) of worship, etc.) (NOTE: The more creative you are with their personality, the more likely I am to use them)**

**Character's Attributes (Fighting style, armour/clothing choice, weapon(s) choice/magical talents. etc.) (Please be as creative as possible; do not simply adhere to the weapons seen in the Elder Scrolls series)**

**And finally, YOU MUST SUBMIT YOUR REQUESTS IN THE FORM OF A PRIVATE MESSAGE, OR THEY WILL NOT BE CONSIDERED. Submissions will be considered valid until May 1, any submitted afterwards will be rejected.**

**Until next time,**

**DR**

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**UPDATE: 4:10 PM, 26/04/2015:**

**As per a few suggestions by Darksnider05, Teucrian and hornet07, I've cut out some details to use later, broken up a few paragraphs into smaller ones, and changed a few allusions as well as fixed a few grammatical mistakes. I hope you all can enjoy this updated chapter a little more, now.**


	5. Highgarden (edited)

**One Last War**

**By: Dirty Reid**

**Chapter 5: Highgarden (edited)**

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**Two weeks later...**

Hippolyta inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of the air saturated by the fragrances of roses, lilacs and dozens of other flowers and fruit trees planted around the capital of the Reach, Highgarden. They had just passed through the first and largest gate, made of a rich dark wood and carved with an intricate pattern of vines, flowers and trees. On either side of the cobblestone path, hedges grew twelve feet high. Alester, who accompanied her merry band of ten - featuring one member of every race, including her - informed her that they were labyrinths that extended around the entire outer ring of the keep.

"For the commoners to play and knights to train in, as well as to confuse invaders." He explained. Hippolyta saw the reasoning, but said nothing and kept her head held high. The Lord Paramount of the Reach would be much harder to impress than Alester Florent, but she dared not say that to his face. Not after he had so generously gifted her and the Legion with enough supplies to build a small fort deep in the forests near Brightwater Keep that she had every intention of converting to an embassy once relations were established. At the feast shortly after the incredibly one-sided skirmish, the four lords of the Shield Islands, Guthor Grimm of Greyshield, Moribald Chester of Greenshield, Humfrey Hewett of Oakenshield and Osbert Serry of Southshield had offered her a mix of gratitude and personal favours for putting her men at risk to save the lives of theirs.

"One who puts themself in harm's way for others with no expectations of accolades are rarer than the blade you took from the Old Drumm." Hewett had told her.

"What is so special about this blade that you call it less common than an act of kindness?" She asked, intrigued.

"That blade is Valyrian steel, forged in the Freehold of Old Valyria by the flames of a dragon. Its edge never dulls, it never rusts, and it never breaks. Alas, the secrets to forging it have been lost for hundreds of years, ever since hell rose up and swallowed Valyria whole." He supplied. Immediately, Hippolyta likened the red blade to one brought about through the flames of the Skyforge, tended once by the long-since-passed Eorlund Grey-Mane. His blades could stand against the cutting power of even Daedric metal, where ordinary steel blades would shatter with some effort. While he had passed the secret of tempering the metal in the way he did so, his successors' blades were of far lesser quality. Over time and to the dismay of many, the Skyforge's coals grew cold as it was further neglected, until it became no more than a relic some time ago. The lack of new weapons had elevated the value of Eorlund's crafts beyond measure. Currently, a few hundred Skyforge weapons wandered Tamriel still, as collector's items for the rich, deadly instruments of war for the adventurous, and lucrative prizes for the thieves.

As she pondered Red Rain and the Skyforge, Hippolyta's guide and entourage trotted through the second set of gates, leading to the middle ring of Highgarden. As they passed through, the merchants and peddlers and farmers and serfs parted before the party of twenty-eight. As they passed, whispered exclamations began to fly.

"Look at how tall that woman is!"

"Look at their ears! Like knives, they are!"

"Seven hells, is that a cat?"

"Mama look! A dragon!"

Hippolyta paid little mind to the comment about her ears or Merindene's, but she had to let a small snicker loose as the child exclaimed and pointed at Stands-In-The-Shade, the young and energetic Argonian Legionnaire that accompanied her. It was by virtue of his curled horns that he could not cover his green and red-accented face with a helm, but the remainder of his body lay hidden behind a heavy set of Legion armour. J'karro was simply indifferent to their words and stares, which the bow-toting Suthay-raht ranger received in abundance. _Divines know what they would say if they saw Ha'Drak without his helm_. She thought in reference to the enormous Orsimeri Legionnaire she had asked to accompany her, clad head to toe in ebony plate. Any thought on what the residents of Highgarden might have said stepped aside as Hippolyta laid eyes upon two small children. They huddled together against a cobblestone house, and looked akin to rodents garbed in rags. Her heartstrings twanged painfully at the downtrodden looks on their dirt-streaked faces and the lack of flesh on their bones. It seemed that no matter where one ventured, the broken, the afflicted and the rejected would always line the streets.

Like a few of her Praetorians, Hippolyta had a weakness for destitute children. She herself had grown up in the care of her grandsires before leaving to wander Tamriel, her immediate family having been taken from her at an early age. Now, seeing these filthy children brought forth memories of her 'first round' of children, those adopted from the streets of Skyrim. With tight lips and a hand rummaging around in her magickally expanded coin purse, Hippolyta quickly dismounted her silver rouncey and elegantly strode towards the two beggars. The commoners parted with unbridled curiosity, but said nothing as she glided towards her targets. The entourage had stopped to watch her, and Alester's guards and squires were murmuring to Hippolyta's company. The two children looked up and craned their heads further to look up at the visage of the impossibly tall woman who crouched down in front of them with a kindly smile.

'What are your names, little ones?" She asked as she crouched down to as close to eye level as she could.

"Devon, son of Devlyn m'lady." The boy said through a mouthful of crooked and dirty teeth.

"Danelle, his sister m'lady." The girl added from behind her mop of crusty hair.

"Does your father know you are here? Or is he... departed?" Hippolyta asked.

"He is departed, m'lady." Danelle said flatly. "What is it to you?"

"Because I understand the emptiness you feel." She answered. "And though I cannot take you in, I can help you in some small way. Here," She presented them with a fat purse of coins. Devon's muddy eyes widened as he reached out for the purse. As he weakly took hold of it, Hippolyta grasped Danelle's hand and placed it over top of the purse as she leaned forward.

"Use this coin wisely, little ones." She dropped her voice to barely a whisper, and the siblings had to lean in to hear her next words. "One of my people will be in touch." She smiled softly as she reared back up and returned to her entourage. The Florent knights and squires watched her with smiling faces at her act of charity. Alester actually gave a small nod. Her entourage said nothing, all fairly certain of what she was truly doing. As she re-mounted her rouncey, Telina Delvanni of Morrowind tilted her blue-grey head just enough to be noticed. Hippolyta responded with the smallest upturn of her lips. As they rode away, a few of the peasants' opinions of these mysterious new people began to change. Hippolyta dismounted her horse to give a satchel of coins to another beggar as they approached the district inhabited by the business owners, farmers and other well off persons, again sharing an unspoken conversation with Delvanni.

Eventually, the drawbridge over the mote surrounding Highgarden's castle lowered, allowing the entourage into the ancestral home of House Tyrell. As she viewed the golden rose that was the standard of the immensely powerful family, Hippolyta reviewed what Alester had told her about them. Formerly stewards of House Gardener elevated to liege lords of the Reach by Aegon Targaryen after ceding Highgarden to the possibly Dragonborn warlord; sided with Aerys 'The Mad King' Targaryen against Robert Baratheon's insurrection, but swore fealty after his victory; largest suppliers of consumables in Westeros and able to field an army one hundred thousand strong. Depending on the impression she made upon Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the Reach, she could either find herself with a veritable horde of troops to battle the White Death, or find her paltry Legion crushed like a bug. Even with magick and her Voice, she, her Praetorians and her dragons couldn't stave off that many swords.

As she entered the throne room, Hippolyta felt disappointment burbling into her chest. When Alester had described Mace Tyrell, the Empress had envisioned one much more... physically imposing. The portly and balding man before the Tamrielic entourage left them wanting greatly. Hippolyta reminded herself that reign was approached differently here in Westeros; a greater emphasis was placed upon a lord's bannermen to defend him than the expectancy of the lord to depend upon his own strength. Indeed, over two dozen well-armed men stood at ready as the ten Tamrielics marched confidently before Lord Tyrell's throne and the family that flanked him. To his immediate right must have been Mace's eldest son. A straggly goatee on an oval face, a rich chocolate doublet and a pine green cape slashed with gold did not draw Hippolyta's keen eyes from the cane resting against his chair. Further right was a second son, this one donning armour embossed with twin roses and a blade at his side. Third from Mace's right was a very young, rather handsome son that even Hippolyta lingered on for a second too long. Light brown, almost rust-coloured eyes matched the shade of the shoulder length curls framing his clean-shaven face, and curiously, a pattern of vines and flowers drew attention to his cuirass.

_Such ostentatious armour_ she remarked silently as she turned her attention to Mace's left. The woman with the sigil of a rose and a stone tower must have been his wife. Her long silver hair fell down her back and sides, and she kept hold of some small amount of a previous beauty. Second from Mace's left was an old crone whose beady little eyes and two immense bodyguards immediately told Hippolyta that she was a force to be danced about with caution. She stared at the Empress intently, the rolls of skin and lack of more than a few teeth doing little to hide the calculating look in her eyes. _This one is dangerous_ she concluded. Furthest to the left was a pretty young maiden who could not have been older than Casiim. Her flowing pink and green dress with large flaring sleeves and delicate silver tiara accented her softly flowing mane of hair and shiny doe eyes. A beauty for certain, but Hippolyta had taken away from Alester's description of House Tyrell more than he likely intended to reveal. The members had made an art of marrying into more prominent houses, slowly increasing their own prestige and wealth through careful tending and patience... not unlike a garden of roses. And when others sought to cut them down, they often ran afoul of the thorns hidden beneath the petals of the lovely flowers. _'Growing Strong' indeed_.

"My lord," Alester Florent began as he stepped forward with a bow. He had dressed in his finest raiments in preparation for this meeting, and had bade Hippolyta and her company to do the same. Some had taken heed, some had not. Hippolyta had donned a white gown with golden cuffs and trim, a gold circlet with inlaid diamonds, and a bleached leather belt with Freedom on her left hip, Red Rain on her right.

"It is with great honour that I bring before you Lady Hippolyta Septim, the First of Her Name, Empress of Tamriel, Magister of the Great House Telvanni, former General of the Free Army of Tamriel and Destroyer of the Fleet of Old Wyk." He introduced before stepping aside, allowing Hippolyta to stride forward and become the subject of Mace's undivided attention. And indeed, the fat man's eyes had bulged somewhat as Alester recited the Empress' more militant titles and accolades.

"Your Grace," He finally found his voice. "As Lord Paramount of Highgarden and the Reach, and Warden of the South, I bid you welcome to my city. And on behalf of everyone who calls the banks of the Mander their homes, I thank you for laying low the godless ironmen who dared to try and steal from us." He said with a grateful nod.

Hippolyta smiled demurely and held up a hand. "I cannot take sole credit for the deed Lord Tyrell. Most of it belongs to the valiant men and women of the Third Imperial Legion and the Fourth Fleet, seventy-three of whom were the first to shed their blood in the waters of Westeros." She waved off.

"As well, I am not the only one who requires an introduction. To my right is General Tonje Fire-Eater, commanding officer of the Third Imperial Legion." The older Nord woman, with her battle dress and axe polished to perfection, bowed respectfully. "To my left is Admiral Fortas Catranian, commanding officer of the Fourth Imperial Fleet." The Imperial admiral had kept his gold-buttoned greatcoat on but open, letting his steel cuirass show. He tipped his tricorn hat with a nod, unconsciously covering his left ear, mangled and ripped from a past scuffle.

"Behind me is Telina Delvanni, Archmagister of the Great House Telvanni, the Wrath of Vvardenfell, one of my most trusted advisors and a very old friend." The petite Dunmer, just shy of two feet shorter than the Empress, inclined her head. Her snow white hair danced about and contrasted with both the tribal tattoos on the left half of her body, and her slanted red eyes set in a pointed face just beginning to succumb to the effects of time, despite her already advanced age.

"And finally Ri'kari of Skyrim, born of Hammerfell, also an advisor and a long time battle-sister." The Redguard woman did not make any gesture to acknowledge that she had been addressed. Instead, her one light brown eye roved about the room, taking in everyone staring at them. Like Stands-In-The-Shade, she kept a spear as her weapon, but instead of wood and steel, the leaf-like head was forged from Malachite crystal, and the shaft from Moonstone.

"'Tis an honour to make your acquaintance, good people. As I am certain Lord Florent has already told you, I am Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South and Lord of Highgarden. To my right are my sons Willas," the crippled boy smiled softly "Ser Garlan the Gallant," the older knight nodded in a similar fashion to the Tamrielic entourage "and Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers." The youngest son gave a sweeping bow. Hippolyta could almost hear Darioth's brow knitting at the actions of the flamboyant 'copycat'.

"To my left is my lovely wife, Alerie of House Hightower," the woman, Alerie, smiled and nodded, "my mother Olenna of the House Redwyne," the old crone made no motion to acknowledge her son's introduction, electing to continue staring at the collection of men, mer and beast-folk. "And finally, my daughter Margaery." The pretty young maiden smiled cutely and inclined her head.

"Lord Florent had said that you and yours were strange in appearance and customs, but his words did no justice to the truth." Mace observed, carefully neutral in his tone. Alester must have mentioned Hippolyta's rather... vehement dislike of being talked down to because of her gender.

"As are yours, my good man. These differences are the purpose for which we have traveled halfway across Nirn, to answer the question I am sure is coming." Hippolyta pressed forwards. "For thousands of years the people of Tamriel have believed Westeros to be but an old sailor's tale. I myself had only the word of a... mentally frail Khajiit and an old coin to-"

"I apologise for interrupting Your Grace, but what exactly is a... Ka-jeet?" Asked Alerie. Hippolyta could not fault her for interjecting, she was sure she would have been confused as well. Instead of saying anything, the Empress turned her head and pointed at J'Karro with her emerald eyes.

"This one has the honour of being Khajiit, my lady." He supplied coolly, amazing the Tyrell family and their court further. A giant cat that not only walked like a man, but _talked_ like one too?!

"Continuing, had I not been shown evidence to the contrary, I would share the disbelief of my subjects. Yet here we are, and it is my desire that Westeros and Tamriel might forge a bond with which to share our cultures." She said. "I am aware that it must ultimately be His Grace Robert Baratheon that makes the decision to ratify relations between our countries, but it never hurts to make friends with those who have the king's ear. To that effect Lord Tyrell, I have brought a small gift for you. May I approach?" Hippolyta asked, prompting Mace to nod after a moment. As she languidly made her way up the dais, only then did the Tyrells realize how tall the Empress actually was. The entire family felt far smaller as the towering mer looked down upon them. From a small satchel at her belt, Hippolyta withdrew a silver ring inlaid with an emerald.

"Place this ring upon your finger and tell me if you feel anything happening." She instructed. Highly skeptical, Mace observed the innocent-looking ring for a moment before reaching tentatively out and grasping it. He placed it on his right index finger with some difficulty, his pudgy digit slightly too large for the ring. For a moment nothing happened, and then Mace's eyes grew wider in surprise. His family watched in interest.

"How do you feel, Lord Tyrell?" Hippolyta could not keep a small grin from tugging at her mouth.

"I feel... vigorous." The Tyrell lord struggled to find the proper word. "I have not felt this exuberant since Storm's End." His breathing quickened as he looked up at Hippolyta. "What has been done to this ring?" He demanded not in consternation, but in excitement.

Hippolyta's grin was growing ever wider. "Such an enchantment is but a sliver of the magicks my people can perform. This ring not only raises the vigor of the wearer, but allows them to recover more quickly as well." She explained. Mace looked down at the little ring in wonder.

"What other magicks are you capable of Your Grace?" Asked Margaery. Even her voice was pretty.

"A plethora, my dear." She answered lightly. "Were I to try and list them, we would be here all day, so a small demonstration will have to suffice." As she finished, Hippolyta cast a Levitation spell and slowly floated backwards off the dais. She landed before her followers as softly as a feather and the purple aura about her feet faded into nothingness. Murmurs arose like weeds throughout the chamber.

"Were relations between our countries established, such magicks could become available to your people in two, or perhaps three generations of intermarriage." Said Hippolyta. "And that is but one of the many things Tamriel can offer. Philosophies, cultural ideals, crafts of many walks and so much more awaits across the sea." She stopped extolling the virtues of her country to sweep her eyes across the faces of the Tyrells, a smile playing at her lips.

"Do I have your interest?" She asked. Mace hunched up and began to whisper to his wife and mother. Hippolyta's ears could hear much better than any mannish race's but even she was too far away to pick up on the fat lord's voice among the murmurs of the court, the shifting of mail on leather and cloth, and the quiet crackle of torches. She chanced a glance at Alester, who gave a tiny nod.

"If I may, Your Grace," Willas Tyrell made his voice heard. "While you said before that you wished to earn the respect of those with King Robert's ear, I cannot help but wonder if there is something else you desire by coming to the Florents and us before entreating His Grace."

The boy was shrewd, Hippolyta would give him that. "Very astute, young master. I mislike disappointing, but what I am looking for is simply knowledge. I want to know about the king before meeting him. What he values and scorns; what his achievements are; what makes him squirm. I want to know the history of Westeros as well. Reading it in a book is well and good, but in my personal experience, every single person has something new to add." Not _entirely_ a lie, owing to the task given to her by Hermaeus Mora, but Hippolyta was not about to share that. Perhaps if fortune favoured her, the Prince of Knowledge's cryptic clue would become clear to her if someone here said just the right thing...

"Well, it would not be gracious were I to refuse the Iron-Breaker knowledge, and a disservice to the realm to sour such a prosperous agreement." Mace conceded. Hippolyta arched a thin eyebrow at the title he used to describe her. "By Lord Florent's word, you single-handedly decimated half the fleet of Old Wyk and took the Old Drumm prisoner. Such deeds beget a new title, wouldn't you agree?"

"... Another title is the last thing I need. But if it will draw attention or interest from the other prominent families of Westeros, then foolish would I be to discard it. Empress Hippolyta Septim, the Iron-Breaker..." She trailed off as she considered the new moniker.

"Whether you choose to accept it or not, at least allow me to show you and your knights the wonders of Highgarden before you continue your journey." Mace proffered. No one missed the shifting of Stands-In-The-Shade, J'Karro and Merindene. Even Fire-Eater and Catranian winced in slight discomfort. "Did I say something offensive?" He asked.

"Not exactly. Excuse us Lord Tyrell, but my Legionnaires and I are not knights, and we would appreciate you refraining from referring to us as such. That term has held... negative connotations to the people of Tamriel for the last fifty years." Fire-Eater said shortly. Sensing a lack of further explanations forthcoming, Mace nodded.

"Of course, and I apologise. I hope that my slip of the tongue will not dissuade you from my offer of a tour, though." Mace insisted.

"Apology accepted Lord Tyrell. Although may I request that your tour be postponed until tomorrow? My fellows and I have been on the road for two weeks, and hearty though we may be, I do not want them operating at anything less than their peak capacity." Hippolyta countered.

If he heard the insinuation that Hippolyta would need to make use of her troops while in Highgarden, Mace gave no indication that he had done so. "Understandable. There are a number of apartments available for you and yours to use, Your Grace. Lord Florent, as always, you are most welcome here. Boys!" He snapped his fingers and two attendants marched dutifully forwards. "Please show Her Grace, Lord Florent and their company to their accommodations." The two boys bowed and silently bade the Tamrielics and the Florent company follow them.

* * *

**One day later...**

"Your Grace?" A familiar voice cooed. Hippolyta looked up from the worn out tome in her hands and blinked as Margaery Tyrell and her grandmother Olenna slowly made their way towards her table. Behind the crone, the two hulking bodyguards thumped along. Though both wore leather and chainmail and carried maces, Hippolyta was confident that neither form of protection could stand up to a slash from Freedom. If her dragon bone blade failed, she always had her magick, and one other nasty little trick that was currently perched atop a bookcase.

"Lady Olenna, Lady Margaery," She replied with a small smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Curiosity." Olenna answered shortly in a cracked and mildly husky voice. "Left, Right, bring us some chairs." She ordered. Hippolyta arched an eyebrow before lifting a hand to stop the two men.

"No need to trouble yourselves boys, I can handle this." She said before her hand began to glow orange. Margaery flinched noticeably, still unsure of the magicks the Empress wielded, but turned in interest as a pair of chairs lazily floated through the air and set down just behind her and her grandmother. The two Tyrells shared a glance at the smirking mer before seating themselves.

"So dears, what about an old woman like me could possibly interest you?" She asked with that same smirk in her voice.

"Were I to try and list everything intriguing about you we would all turn to dust before I reached the end." Olenna riposted dryly. "But I believe starting with your last comment would be a good place to start. You do not look more than forty, Your Grace." She observed.

Hippolyta chuckled, a pleasant sound if one ignored the sinister edge hiding behind it. "Oh but I am m'lady, regardless of how I look. Perhaps you and your granddaughter would hazard a guess as to my actual age?" She challenged. Both the Tyrell women said nothing. "Oh come now, I won't be offended. If anything, I will feel flattered at your guesses." She coaxed, actually having an effect, as Margaery took a stab.

"Three-and-forty?" She asked. Hippolyta shook her head.

"Nine-and-forty." Olenna guessed. Another shake of the head prompted a curious head tilt from the crone.

"... Five-and-fifty?" Margaery ventured. Hippolyta smirked in a fashion that said 'You are wrong' without any words necessary. The maiden actually felt her mouth open in surprise as she again guessed wrong.

"Sixty." Olenna tried. Hippolyta shook her head again, jabbing her thumb upwards as if to say 'Guess higher'. "Perhaps you could tell us to save our morning from being wasted, Your Grace." She said with a mirthless smile.

"A little impatient, hmm? Well m'lady, if you insist on knowing, I do hope you will suspend your incredulity when I give you the answer. It was just last year that I celebrated four-and-a-quarter centuries of life." Hippolyta revealed.

Margaery's wide brown eyes grew even wider. Olenna pursed her wrinkled lips in what Hippolyta deduced to be disbelief. "You doubt my claim, Lady Olenna." She stated.

"Not exactly, after yesterday's demonstration. I just wonder how such a long life is attainable." She answered.

"All of the merish races are descendants of the gods themselves; the blood and longevity of divinity runs through our very veins. It was Phynaster, the hero-god and Great Adventurer who taught the ancient Aldmer to live even longer lives by taking shorter steps. As a result, most mer can live between three to four hundred years." Hippolyta elucidated.

"I notice you said _between_ three and four centuries. You seem to have exceeded that." Olenna observed.

"If one looks in the right places or assists the right people, one can find themselves privy to secret magicks that can stretch their lives even further. The wisest and most successful mages of House Telvanni keep such secret knowledge, as do the Altmer of Clan Direnni, and the Psijic Order of Artaeum. Those are the keepers I know of, at least." She added with a shrug.

"Does Lady Telina know of these secrets?" Margaery asked.

"As Arch-Magister, she controls who is to be made aware of them. And indeed, she has used them to live an extremely protracted life. She is one of the few people who have come here that is older than I am; five-hundred-sixty-eight, to be exact." She added.

"By the Seven," Margaery breathed.

Olenna pressed on. "You have a number of militant titles attached to your name, Your Grace, and women seem to hold many seats of power in Tamriel as well. Is that a common occurrence?" She asked. Hippolyta nodded.

"People are not judged by their family name, race or gender in Tamriel; only by their actions. The most bigoted of individuals or groups may say otherwise, but they are the exceptions to the rule. As Empress, I am expected to be a leader in all walks of life. Politically, I must be an unshakable tower of charisma, cunning and intelligence. Martially, I am the first warrior into battle, and the last to hang up her armour. Socially, I must be the perfect mother for my children, and a paragon of kindness to those who would look to me for guidance." She extolled.

"You have children of your own Your Grace?" Margaery asked.

"Three daughters and a son."

"And I'm sure they are darlings you could go on about for days and days Your Grace, but if it please you, I would prefer that we cut straight to the heart of the matter." Olenna interjected a little sharply. Hippolyta gave a silent nod and fixed her eyes on the crone.

"My son and the old Florent may have bought your explanation for coming here, but the Lord Oaf of Highgarden and he are dim and idealistic. No one is that altruistic without being naive, and lucrative though a trading agreement between our countries may be, the half a world between us makes it an impractical operation." She deduced, steepling her fingers and intensifying her dimming gaze. Margaery spared a quick glance at Olenna before fixing Hippolyta with her own, far less intense gaze. Both felt a small bubble of unease rise in their chests as the elven Empress matched them with her own leer.

"It seems I was correct to be wary of you, Lady Olenna; Lord Tyrell may hold the seat of Highgarden, but you hold his strings." She deduced, seemingly correct if the minute tilt of the younger woman's head was an affirmation. "Before I say anything, I trust you and your guards know better than to repeat anything we speak of?" She asked and shot a slow glare at the two brutes Olenna called Left and Right.

"These two wouldn't know a secret if it bit them, let alone spread it." She waved dismissively.

"Grandmother!" Margaery chided gently. Hippolyta chalked Olenna's attitude up to being curious, grumpy and set in her ways.

"I sincerely hope your lack of faith in them is well-founded; I would hate to get blood on these books." The Tyrell women shifted uncomfortably at the incredibly casual threat of violence and the loving manner in which Hippolyta stroked Freedom's ring pommel. As the two bodyguards shortened the gap between the Empress and themselves, Hippolyta flicked her head and eyes up at something behind them. Four heads turned to view Darioth perched lazily atop a shelf, beady black eyes watching them over a book and one leg swinging, his bronzed bow catching the late afternoon light.

"Now that the stakes are known, the truth can be made plain. There is indeed a deeper reason I have come here with an army at my back. My former mentor, Paarthurnax, warned me of a vision from the Father God Akatosh involving Westeros. A sweeping White Death shall surge from a land always cloaked in snow, burning and butchering anything in its path before freezing it over. And behind it all, standing atop the remains of a giant wall made of ice, a Daedric Prince laughs as we turn on each other for a scant extra moment of safety before succumbing to its hordes of monsters. Eventually, this sweeping death will spread not just across Westeros, but to Tamriel, Akavir and every piece of land in between. I am here to make sure that does not happen." Hippolyta recounted. Silence reigned for a full six seconds.

"A rather fanciful tale." Olenna commented matter-of-factly.

"A response I expected." Hippolyta replied with a nod. "One I hope you might be able to help me become clear on. Did any of what I just described to you sound similar to any children's stories, fables or myths here in Westeros?" She asked.

"... Were I to draw a comparison, I believe what this mentor of yours saw was the story of the coming of the White Walkers. Men of ice and snow from the Land of Always Winter, who are said to have almost succeeded in taking Westeros for their own millennia ago. The First Men of Essos and the native Children of the Forest banded together to drive them back, and later erected the Wall, which still stands today." Olenna told the Empress pensively.

"I have never heard of a Daedric Prince before, Your Grace." Margaery admitted.

"I would not have expected you to, as they seem to prefer to keep to Tamriel. A Daedric Prince is... hmm... in the simplest of terms, it is a force of change and chaos, that acts as the antithesis of the order given by the gods as we know them. They are violently unpredictable beings with twisted senses of morality we cannot even begin to fathom, and more often than not, they take no greater pleasure than exerting their influence on Nirn through using us pitiful mortals as their instruments." Hippolyta found the proper words after a few seconds of pondering, anticipating correctly what was about to be said next.

"You speak as though you have experience in the matter of Daedric Princes, Your Grace." Olenna pointed out.

"I do. I have on more than one occasion been... 'asked' by a Daedric Prince to do their bidding." Hippolyta admitted. Neither Tyrell missed the small catch in her voice.

"How many occasions?" Olenna wondered aloud.

"Eight. Each requiring a pilgrimage, a retrieval or one or more murders of the Prince's previous affiliates." Hippolyta cocked her head and looked skyward, remembering the tasks she had set out upon so long ago.

"Based on the acts to come and the... clues given by one such Prince, there are less than half a handful of suspects whose spheres of influence align with the travesty to come: Mephala, the Prince of Manipulation and Murder; Boethiah, the Prince of Sedition; possibly Azura, the Prince of Transition and Change." Hippolyta pinched the bridge of her sharply-pointed nose and shook her head. "The Dunmer under my command are not going to be happy about this." She sighed.

"Why is that?" Margaery asked.

"Azura, Mephala and Boethiah are the three deities responsible for the Dunmer we know today. Their architecture, philosophy, magickal practices and customs were given by the three Daedra they consider 'good'. A rather dangerous delusion to believe in, as many a worshipper will tell you." Hippolyta explained.

"Because our morality cannot be applied to them." Olenna stated, prompting Hippolyta to nod.

"I could be wrong, though. All I know for certain is that the Prince in question chooses to appear as a female when appearing to we mortals. For all I know, my sources could have lied to me, and the Prince behind the coming of the White Walkers could be one of the few who has attempted to take Nirn before." She shrugged.

"But that is not particularly important right now. What _is_ important is that the powerful and influential peoples of Westeros be made aware that this cataclysm is coming. I realise that I have given you little to no reason to believe me, but proof does not appear all at once. As you said, trade between Tamriel and Westeros is not particularly practical, but if there was no threat posed by a Daedric Prince, I would not have come here." Hippolyta reasoned. Margaery watched her with interest and Olenna nodded with every point the Empress gave.

"Such honesty is rare here in Westeros Your Grace. A word of caution before you ride out to entreat the other lords: Most will not take you seriously unless undeniable evidence is given to them. Others will attempt to wrangle some form of profit from your calls for aide before committing to your crusade against the Walkers and this Prince." Olenna warned. Hippolyta exhaled loudly.

"And you, Lady Olenna? What will I have to give you in order to win Highgarden's support in my endeavour?" She asked pointedly. The crone smirked, showing several empty spaces where teeth should be.

"Smart woman, to be suspicious of me." She said. "But you needn't fret much. Your Grace has treated me with the respect and caution most other nobles have deigned an old hen like me unworthy of." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "And looking at your reasoning practically, I see little in the way of evidence that contradicts your claims. I give you my word that Highgarden will at the very least listen to your call to war when the time comes, if at the appropriate time you give us credit where it is due." She claimed. Hippolyta blinked slowly a few times as she mulled Olenna's words over as one might savour a fine wine.

"... You want me to use my clout and hard-earned respect to elevate you and Margaery to a similar disposition when the smoke clears." She said slowly after moment. Olenna's expression did not change. Silence reigned for a moment.

"I had to take up arms against a fleet of men I had no qualms with and sacrifice seventy-three soldiers to lift the suspicion and earn the trust of Brightwater Keep. And even then, I do not know how far that trust will stretch once I begin my campaign." She said aloud. "Placing the credit where it truly belongs in Highgarden seems a relatively small and easily accepted price for assistance against the next Oblivion Crisis."

"Then we have an accord?" Olenna asked. Hippolyta smiled genuinely.

"We do indeed. And though I have little to prove my claim, I thank you for at least placing some faith in me, despite your rather... insidious intentions." She fished for the right words, prompting a cock of Olenna's eyebrow.

"And what insidious intentions are these?" She asked far too innocently.

"Come Lady Olenna, we are only women here, so there's no need to dance around the truth. I have been in Westeros less than a month and already I know how the political machine's gears turn: The men are the ultimate decision-makers, and the few women who have clawed their way to power are looked down upon for their place outside the traditional hierarchy. As a result, their words are oft disregarded, and it does not take a savant to see that you m'lady are quite tired of having to constantly bend to the will of those like your 'Lord Oaf' of a son." Hippolyta deduced.

"To you and Lady Margaery, I am a means to an end whom you will help in exchange for my hoisting the two of you onto a pedestal which you will use to knock down Lord Tyrell and upset the status quo that has thrust its roots deep into the earth of Westeros for thousands of years. If that is what is required for me to garner support from the Tyrell family, I will gladly be a means to an end." She finished.

"... That was quite possibly the most succinctly accurate summary of our plot I believe could have ever been orated." Margaery stated flatly. Hippolyta's smirk lit up her face again.

"I have been dancing the dance of backroom politics since before Aegon Targaryen named your family the Wardens of the South, Lady Margaery. And shaking the foundations of a traditionalist society is a routine I am no novice at. I did so with the Nords of Skyrim, and the Aldmeri Dominion of the Summerset Isles. Proving to a bounty of scheming old men complacent in their seats of power who the real minds behind their success truly are should be a smooth and amusing affair."

Unsaid though it may have went, the seed of friendship between Highgarden and the Empire of Tamriel would be sown that day. That seed would eventually grow into a tree with bark as hard as ebony, and stand firm against the deluge of snow and blood that would eventually pour down upon it.

* * *

**Finally, chapter 5 is done. I'm sorry about the wait everyone, but this one was the literary equivalent of constipation; it just did not want to come out. Also, I'm not great at dialogue in general, and Olenna is notoriously hard to write. I just can't seem to get the right blend of her dry humour, bluntness and scheming wordplay. If you have any tips on how to write her better, let me know after you:**

**1) Tell me whether or not you liked this chapter**

**2) Tell me what you SPECIFICALLY liked about this chapter**

**3) Tell me what you DIDN'T like about this chapter**

**4) Recommend a suitable improvement**

**See you sooner than the period between chapter 4 and 5,**

**DR**

* * *

**Update: 2:30 PM, 5 June 2015: At the suggestions of both hornet07 and kyren, I have cut out the introductions of a number of characters during the meeting with Mace Tyrell, as well as trimmed a few unnecessary descriptors. They will get their own descriptions in the following chapter.**


	6. The Lull

**One Last War**

**By: Dirty Reid**

**Chapter 6: The Lull**

* * *

Fortas Catranian did not need to twist his neck around to know that the slow and soft footfalls behind him belonged to General Fire-Eater. He continued to lounge on the bank of an elbow in the Mander, legs splayed out before him and propped up by his arms. He looked completely relaxed as he gazed out over the sun-kissed riverbed. With eyes keen from decades at sea, he tracked a pair of single-occupant canoes as they rowed slowly up the river. Downwind, a single sail pleasure skiff glided along, a handful of men and women in loose clothing visible on the deck. Up the river, a jetty played host to a number of boats, reminding Fortas of a gaggle of piglets at their mother's teats.

"A little boat-watching to pass the time, Admiral?" Tonje asked.

"To relax, General. And please, call me Fortas. We are not on duty nor in the presence of the Empress, so I believe we can forego the formalities." Fortas assured as he patted the ground next to him. The Nordic general was silent for a moment before she heeded his invitation and seated herself beside him. Even sitting down, Tonje was taller than him. Out of the corner of his eye, Fortas saw hr raise a dark green bottle to her lips before taking a long pull.

"What do you have there?" He asked curiously. Tonje swallowed quickly and gave a thoughtful sigh.

"Arbor Gold. A wine from the Lady Olenna's home city. 'Tis supposed to be among the finest of vintages in Westeros." She paused to take another drink. "And while I cannot compare it to any other Westerosi wines, I can say with conviction that it is easily as delectable as most spirits produced in Skyrim or Cyrodiil." She said before holding the bottle out to him with a raised eyebrow. Fortas looked down at the bottle for a moment before slowly grasping it and taking a drink. A bloom of warmth rose in his throat as the wine went down like water. On his tongue, the taste of perfectly ripened plums, a hint of cherry, and just a touch of pepper for spice danced about like a Breton ballet.

Fortas could not help but let a sigh of pleasure rise from him. This Arbor Gold was his first alcoholic drink in over two months. Unlike a number of his fellow officers or crew, Fortas refused to drink while sailing, maintaining that "If the sea is not given the respect it deserves, it will surely hasten your end." Some scoffed at what they perceived as paranoia, but those that were close to the Admiral and deemed worthy of the stories of his childhood knew that his reasons were founded on past experiences.

"That is quite pleasing to the palate." He agreed as he handed the bottle back to Tonje. The Nord's stern face softened into something thoughtful.

"If our quest goes tits up, at least we will have Arbor Gold." She said lightly. Fortas snorted quietly at her comment before voicing a rather spontaneous thought.

"On the subject of our quest, what are your thoughts about it?" He asked. Tonje did not answer immediately, instead taking a contemplative sip of wine.

"... If there is anyone living who could stop an Oblivion Crisis, it would be Hippolyta." She said after a moment.

"You seem unsure of that." Fortas observed.

"My faith in her cunning and intellect is unwavering, but... I suppose..." She fell silent as she grasped for the correct words to use. "I suppose a part of me is still skeptical of the tales of the Dragonborn's power." She finally admitted. Fortas was thoroughly intrigued at the admission of Tonje's lack of faith, even if it was reluctantly done so.

"Why is that? It has been proved time and time again that her exploits are not exaggerated." Said Fortas.

"I know. My doubt stems from a lack of eyewitness accounts on my part." She said.

"... So the hundreds of separate reports from persons who can attest to her strength and exploits mean nothing to you?" He asked incredulously.

"Now that I hear it, that statement was poorly worded. What I meant to say was that I have not seen her in a pitched battle for my entire career as an officer." She backpedaled.

Fortas made a noise of comprehension. "I understand. You believe that because she has been so proficient at preventing conflict that she has unintentionally deprived herself of the ability to keep her skills honed." He summarised. Tonje pointed at him.

"Perfectly worded, thank you. The last major conflict in Tamriel's history was the Whitestrake Rebellion and that ended, what, forty-five years ago?"

"Forty-two." Fortas corrected.

"That is forty-two years since Hippolyta was last involved in a war, small though it was. Such a period of stagnancy is not something one can just bounce back from at the drop of a hat. One of her Praetorians let slip that she was left fatigued after capturing the ironmen's flagship." Tonje admitted.

"Her skill with a blade is but one facet of her strength to be considered. I watched her produce a Thu'um powerful enough to reduce half of the enemy's numbers to dust." Fortas countered.

"Fair enough, but what of a situation in which she cannot use her Thu'um without injuring a friendly? And if her magick is not enough?" Tonje asked.

Fortas did not respond for a moment. "If we are discussing this, then no doubt Hippolyta has known about it from the moment it became apparent. T'would not be a surprise to me if she was already taking steps to correct her shortcomings." He said. Tonje nodded.

"True enough. I suppose I was hasty in my judgment and neglected to consider her ability to compensate for her weaknesses by swaying people to act in her interests, as well. Not even Tiber Septim could boast bringing Black Marsh into the Empire... Or rebuilding it from the ground up with as little blood spilt as she did." She said with no small amount of respect. As she sipped at the wine and passed it to Fortas again, she let her muddy eyes linger on the Imperial sailor.

"May I ask you a more personal question, Fortas?" She said after a moment's contemplation.

"Of course, Tonje." He said easily, while redirecting his attention to her.

"It occurs to me that I know very little about you. How did your service with the Empire begin?" She asked. Some uncertainty clouded her face as a frown moulded into place on Fortas'.

"... It was not voluntary." He finally admitted. "Before I joined the Navy, I came from a family of merchant sailors. We carried mostly goods for the well-off: Furs, expensive tomes, spices and the like aboard our ship, the _Rosie Dawn_. To our detriment, it was the aftermath of the Whitestrake Rebellion when I was allowed to sail with my family for the first time. Because there was so little demand for luxury goods, we were forced to sell our haul for a loss and return to Cyrodiil." He paused and held his hand out, silently asking for the bottle. Tonje obliged, and he took another swig before sighing and continuing his story.

"I left aboard another liner, the _Blue Gull_, to acquire more capitol as my family attempted to secure another haul. My path to Navy service began on that voyage when reavers attacked our ship off the coast of Ebonheart. I was one of two sailors to be spared, and I have the ear to prove it." He tilted his head to the right and showed Tonje the full extent of his wound. The upper portion of his left ear- the helix- had been ripped apart, and the lateral segment flopped about like a torn up, fleshy flag.

Tonje winced. "What happened next?"

"I was rendered unconscious along with the other sailor I mentioned, Annika. I... I am not proud to admit it, but I allowed myself to be press-ganged into their crew under pain of death. Because I was literate, I was made third mate. Annika was..." He trailed off and a dark look came over his face. Tonje did not ask him to elaborate, knowing full well what had happened to the girl. She had conducted a handful of raids against the reavers of Morrowind during her three-decade long service, and had come to experience a particularly sickening dread when prisoners were to be found and freed. One in twelve was the average ratio of female prisoners who made a full recovery after their ordeal. Six, on average, were broken both physically and mentally to varying degrees, and were never the same again. The remaining five ended up taking their own lives, unable to live with the horrifying acts of torture, mutilation and rape they had endured.

"You needn't continue Fortas, if the memory is too unpleasant." Tonje assured him with a shake of her head.

"No, no, it's fine. I worked alongside the reavers for almost a full year before an Imperial raid discovered our hideout. I managed to evade detection until most of the reavers had been killed or captured and surrendered immediately. I had been fortunate in that the ship had only scavenged for the year in which I was forced to serve on it, and during my eventual trial, my family was able to vouch for me. The judge and jury believed in me, but as I had still committed theft, a sentence was to be given, albeit heavily reduced: One year of labour in the ebony mines, or one year of mandatory service in the Navy. Because we are speaking now, I trust you know which choice I made." He finished by holding his hand out in silent askance for the wine, which she obliged.

"That is quite the tale." She remarked softly. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

"Don't mention it." Said Fortas as he handed the bottle back to her. "It occurs to me that I know very little about you as well. What is your story of origin Tonje?" To his interest, she did not answer immediately, and exhibited several signs of uncertainty before saying anything.

"A painful memory, I take it." He stated, to which she nodded.

"Are you familiar with the Skaal?" She asked, to which he nodded. "I come from a settlement of them in the northernmost reaches of High Rock. The Skaal are traditionally isolationist, so while not technically anti-Empire, they have no desire to answer to Hippolyta." She explained. Having an idea of where she was going with her story, Fortas nodded silently.

"I was the fourth child among six, and the only one who wanted more than a simple existence of farming, hunting game and bearing children. When I told my father and mother that I wanted to join the Legion, the ensuing argument could be heard in Farrun. My mother called me a deserter of our way of life, and my father..." Tonje stopped to swallow and Fortas could see her eyes develop a sheen of tears.

"... I call myself Fire-Eater but I am not welcome among my clan. My father disowned me the moment I walked out the door of my ancestral home." She hung her head and tried valiantly to keep her body from shaking. "I have not seen my family in thirty-eight years." Her voice caught and she blinked hard. Fortas chose not to push as the general fought to keep her emotions under control.

"Do your siblings share the sentiment of your parents?" He asked after Tonje took a calming draught from the bottle.

"My eldest brother Aros, to a degree. He does not resent my decision, but he does not understand why I would choose a lifestyle so 'strict and controlling'. My older sisters Eldrid and Bera support my decision silently, as does my younger brother Keldan. My younger sister Maeva has not expressed an opinion one way or the other." She answered.

"They informed you of this through letters?" He theorised aloud.

"Yes. Eldrid, Bera, Keldan and I have been communicating in secret for near thirty years."

"Why the secrecy?"

"Old though they may be, if mother and father found out, they would ensure that no mail sent by them or me would ever reach the other. They hold a great deal of influence within my former home." She elaborated.

"I see. What do you speak of, if I may ask." He pushed.

"Mostly the notable happenstances that occur in our lives between letters. I mostly tell them of my promotions or my Legion's actions against those who would defy Hippolyta. They tell me of the happenings in their settlement. The few times we have sent each other a common topic have been when our children were born." She said with a sad smile. "I have eight nephews and six nieces that I have not, and will likely never meet, nor shall my son." She sighed.

"What can you tell me of your son?" Fortas asked quickly to move their subject to one much lighter.

"Aevar is his name. He was born twenty-six years ago after a... lapse in judgment following the destruction of an elven supremacist cell hiding in Elseweyr." She began, prompting a tiny smirk from Fortas. The Nords knew how to throw an awesome shindig, but among the Legion and Navy, a saying had been brought into use hundreds of years ago: "Side effects may not manifest for nine months."

"He wanted to follow me into the Legion, but I managed to dissuade him from taking a position where he would be under constant threat of death. He knew that he was the only family I truly had left, so he chose a career in intelligence with the Eighth. He has been there for five years." She sighed fondly before returning her gaze to him.

"Do you have any children?" She asked.

"Two sons, a daughter, and my wife is expecting another within a few months." He pulled on a golden chain around his neck and cracked open the heavy pendant dangling from the end. The familiar purple smoke of a Moment Catcher spell began to rise from it, congealing into an image of Fortas in the standard Navy formal dress. To his right, a sharp-faced woman with a smile on her face and her glossy black hair in a plait rested her hands on the shoulders of two young boys. The elder with his shaggy hair pulled into a ponytail looked to be a teenager, while the younger with short bristles looked no more than ten. In front of Fortas, a little girl of perhaps seven smiled hugely, showing several gaps where teeth used to be. Tonje smiled at the memory imprinted on the locket through magic.

"You are a very fortunate man, Fortas." She said genuinely. "What are their names?"

"My wife is Sofia, a herbalist from the Nibenay Basin whom I met during shore leave almost eighteen years ago. She is as stunning now as she was then, and I knew she was the one the very first time I bought a bushel of sage from her. After the first time, I always ventured back to Drakelowe when on leave in Cyrodiil. Our courtship progressed quickly owing to my profession, and we married after three years. My sons are named Regulus," He pointed to the older boy, " and Pietro," He indicated the younger son, "and my daughter is named Cecilia. Regulus will begin studying at the Arcane University in a few months, and Pietro wishes to follow in his footsteps. Cecilia has said that she wishes to follow me into the Navy 'Because I want to be tough like Papa'." He smiled fondly. "The boys did not appreciate her saying that, but I could not have been prouder."

Tonje smiled in amusement. "A girl after my own heart." She stated, prompting a laugh from Fortas. From there, they finished the bottle of Arbor Gold and continued to trade light-hearted stories about their children, appreciating the brief lull in what was indubitably going to be Hippolyta's biggest campaign since the war with the Aldmeri Dominion.

* * *

Telina Delvanni ambled slowly through the richer district of Highgarden, having carried out Hippolyta's unspoken orders to the letter. The children, Devon and Danelle had been persuaded to spy for the Dunmer woman through displays of genuine affection, and Barton the beggar had been quickly won over through use of her wiles. Hundreds of years utilising seduction techniques had left the elderly woman indifferent to acts of manipulation, conversion and subversion, and as one of Hippolyta's most connected operatives, she put them to use now even more than she had while gaining control of Morrowind in all but name. Personally she felt that her newest informants would be of little help and had said such to Hippolyta before their trek to Highgarden, but the Empress was firm in her orders to have eyes among the lowest of men and women in Westeros before swaying those of influence. Telina was half-sure she knew the reason already, but had asked the younger mer regardless.

"There is great power in being ignored, my friend. People will utter their secrets in the presence of a beggar for they disregard the possibility that someone so piteous and wretched has no way to use it against them. Those who fall within the sphere of The Great Darkness do not hold the grandeur one may expect from the acolytes of a Daedra, but it would be foolish not to use them." She had answered. While her skepticism was not completely allayed, Telina accepted Hippolyta's reasons nonetheless.

With her task complete for the moment, her mind wandered about as she continued her languid stroll. After purchasing a fire plum from a vendor and sinking her teeth into the ripe and juicy fruit, she began to contemplate the benefits and drawbacks of seducing the royal sons of Highgarden. She had briefly entertained the thought of working her charm on Lord Tyrell, but Hippolyta had come to an agreement with the Ladies Olenna and Margaery, and would have been apoplectic with rage if she had destabilised the fragile alliance. The thought of the Empress being consumed by the red mist brought back a rather revolting memory from the aftermath of the Whitestrake Rebellion where Hippolyta had stormed the a prominent stronghold, all one thousand of her Praetorians in tow. She shuddered and took another bite of her fire plum, the sweet fruit infused with a warming heat pushing away the thought of just how nasty the Empress could be.

Her aimless wandering eventually led her to a courtyard filled with voluminous trees and waist-high hedges. Cushioned chairs and stone benches occupied the eastern corner, and a handful were occupied by dress-clad women and squires. In the middle of the courtyard, two young men in boiled leather vests and helms traded blows with longswords. Telina's vermillion eyes roved over them, watching every move both contestants make, noting even the slightest mistake they both made and observing any opportunities that they exploited or missed. The combatant in the green doublet proved to be the more skilled of the two, taking a more defensive approach and forcing his opponent to use more sweeping, inefficient moves in order to counter his attacks. It took him perhaps half a minute to disarm his foe and hold him at sword point. Though she would not utter it, Telina was mildly impressed by his efficiency. The ladies clapped politely and the squires rushed in with cloths and beverages. The victor removed his helm and Telina cocked an eyebrow as the curly locks of Ser Loras Tyrell fell about his handsome face. Without a helm obstructing his view, Loras eventually took note of the Dunmer woman staring at him. Telina strode slowly into the courtyard proper, putting a little extra sway in her hips as a distraction. The defeated boy, who could not have been more than five-and-ten looked at her mesmerised, as did the squires and even one of the girls. That being said, Telina did not make it difficult to become distracted in her presence. The blue robes she favoured left her arms uncovered and the slits up the sides bared her slender legs. She was not fond of armour, preferring spells such as Ebonyflesh to protect herself, but wore an enchanted steel cuirass contoured perfectly to her torso. Also enchanted were the intricate cloth bracers and leather boots she wore, cumulatively tripling her magicka reserves and imbued with enough energy to deflect arrows.

"Lady Telina," Loras greeted with a nod. "What brings you here?"

"Aimless wandering brought me here." She answered. "But curiosity has made me stay."

"How so?" Asked Loras.

"For one so young, you have some skill with a blade. I am wondering who taught you so." Telina mused aloud.

"I began learning the craft of the knight at eight, and squired for both my brothers. I earned my knighthood less a year ago after foiling an attempt upon the life of Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End." He recited proudly. The small group of women- one of whom Telina noted was Loras' sister Margaery- smiled and giggled quietly.

"Quite the tale." She remarked dryly, her attitude prompting a look from Loras and his defeated opponent.

"You do not seem impressed." He remarked a little sharply.

"If you are expecting me to swoon at your feet in reverence because of a title attached to your name you are going to be extremely disappointed, boy. The term 'knight' carries no weight in Tamriel, and for all I know, your teaching could be even more lackluster than the drills Legion recruits are put through in Basic Training." She said coolly, her eyes roving over the squires and women.

Loras exhaled loudly. "I number among the most skilled nights in the South Lady Telina, as many a _true_ warrior will tell you." He said while puffing up his chest in an attempt to intimidate the smaller Dunmer. Telina knew that she should not have rose to the bait, but she had never had any patience for male chauvinism. With a quick jerk of her right arm, she thrust her staff forward, catching the custom made piece of winding quicksilver in the blink of an eye. The large and inordinately pointed blue soul gem fused to the top quivered almost close enough to tickle Loras' throat. The youngest Tyrell boy jumped back in surprise at the unexpected move, the squires jerked forward and the ladies gasped.

"Another inch and you would be dead in three minutes." Telina stated flatly as she withdrew her staff. "A true warrior would know better than to let their guard down around one they just insulted as grievously as you did I."

"Th- that was not fair! I was not ready!" Loras exclaimed.

"No foe waits for you to ready yourself for battle, Ser Loras. But if it is a fair fight you desire, then so be it." She slammed her staff into the ground hard enough to keep it upright and reached for the longsword at her waist. As the ebony composing the blade sang as it flew from its sheath, a bright yellow light in the centre of the ornate crossguard began to glow. Loras, who had been in the middle of readying himself, stopped and stared transfixed as ghostly fire began to burn along the fuller of the blade.

"What is that blade?" He asked more to himself.

"Behold Dawnbreaker, a gift from the Lady of Infinite Energies, Meridia. Oh don't worry," Telina assured him with a small grin. "The flames that burn along it are harmless... assuming of course that you are not a corpse returned from the dead." She grinned more broadly at the looks on the faces of the Westerosi.

"How... how is that possible?" Asked Loras' still unnamed sparring partner.

"Magic." Telina answered glibly, adopting a ready stance she had learned from Hippolyta: Body facing sideways, sword held with the tip pointing at the target's head, non-dominant arm held behind her back. The aim of this style was to utilise one's speed and (in Hippolyta's case) reach to contend with one's foe while presenting themself as a smaller target. Loras adopted a rather standard stance: Feet at shoulder width on a diagonal, blade at shoulder height and pointed forward. For a moment, Dunmer and man stared at each other before Telina began circling slowly, never taking her eyes off Loras. The Tyrell matched her speed, his brown eyes boring into her vermilion ones.

Telina opened her offense with a swift thrust, parried by Loras. He countered with a two-handed backswing she leaned away from, resuming her opening stance. The purpose of her strike was to test his reflexes against her own. She had been aiming at a point just to the left of his ear, so had he not reacted fast enough, she would not have hit him anyway. Surprisingly he was faster than she anticipated, and coming from someone with a... blessing as unique as her, that was saying something. As Loras moved in for another strike, Telina greeted him with an overhead swing. Sparks flew from Dawnbreaker as he blocked the blow. Just what she wanted.

Telina resisted the urge to grin as she shunted their blades to the side and seized his arm before lifting both his feet off the ground with her left foot. With strength uncharacteristic of one her size, she hoisted him into the air before slamming the pommel of Dawnbreaker into his chest. All the breath went out of Loras as he hit the ground, but he recovered by batting away her thrust while simultaneously rolling away and returning to his feet. His brow was furrowed in frustration, and at that very moment, Telina knew she would win. She drew Dawnbreaker close to her body and wrapped her left hand behind her back just as Margaery and her gaggle of maids beseeched Loras to fight. The Tyrell knight advanced with several rapid slices and thrusts, all of which she leaned away from or ducked, lashing out and jabbing him in the chest after an overextended backswing. The impact made him hesitate just long enough for her to lash out and block his sword arm as he transitioned into a swing. Loras sucked in a breath as Telina stepped in under his guard before shouting as she dragged Dawnbreaker along a point just above his wrist. The spectral flames, while not harmful to living mortals, still cauterized the wound. She grasped Loras' wrist with her left hand and dug her shoulder into his chest before shifting her body and executing a modified shoulder throw. Loras hit the ground again, and the throbbing in his wrist clearly became painful enough that his grip on his blade loosened. Opportunity presented, Telina lashed out with a kick, sending the steel sword flying before pointing at Loras' throat with Dawnbreaker. To the side, Margaery, Loras' partner, the squires and the maidens were all making noises of disbelief or despair as the Knight of Flowers fell at the feet of the Wrath of Vvardenfell.

"Yield! I yield!" He exclaimed, raising his hands to the side of his chest. Telina gave him a hard look before sheathing Dawnbreaker and offering him her left hand. A blink of surprise was Loras' only reaction before he slowly took her hand and allowed her to pull him up.

"You are swift with a blade Ser Loras, I will give you that." Telina admitted as her right hand began to glow a soft yellow. Loras tried to flinch away, but Telina had not let go of his hand. He calmed as the throbbing in his wrist began to dull and the rent flesh began to knit back together.

"But you are arrogant. In both the fact that you are considered formidable in Westeros, and that you do not believe a woman could be as skilled with a blade as you." She added with a hard look as she released him. As she unstuck her staff from the ground, she gave Loras one last look.

"A piece of advice that has saved my life many times before, Ser Loras:" Telina began, pausing as multiple eyes set on her. "Always assume that anyone you do not know on the battlefield is more skilled than you. Fear, in the correct circumstance, can make anyone capable of feats they never believed themselves able to do." And with her declaration, Telina Delvanni strode away to report to Hippolyta and ponder what she had learned: Not once did Ser Loras seem distracted by her attire, and his extolling of Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm's End was _just_ a little too passionate to be born of professional respect. _A tidbit to exploit for another time_, she said to herself, filing the hunch away in topics she would bring up after consulting Hippolyta regarding her next move in the slippery game of politics.

* * *

**A.N.: Chapter 6 complete! To my fans, I apologise for the extended period between this chapter and the last. What's my excuse this time, you might be wondering?**

**Arkham. Fucking. Knight.**

**Seriously, if you haven't already, go buy it after you...**

**1) Tell me whether or not you liked this chapter**

**2) Tell me what you SPECIFICALLY liked about this chapter**

**3) Tell me what you DIDN'T like about this chapter**

**4) Recommend a suitable improvement**

**Until next time,**

**DR**


	7. Murmurs

**One Last War**

**By: Dirty Reid**

**Chapter 7: Murmurs**

* * *

**King's Landing...**

"This had best be important, Varys." Robert Baratheon groused as he threw himself into a padded wooden chair. Incredibly, the piece of furniture creaked, but did not break under the rotund King's weight. The man to whom Robert spoke was both short and plump, with a head smooth as an egg, donning rich green robes and smelling of perfume. His ungainly appearance was belied by curiously graceful movements as he followed the King to the table and took up a seat of his own.

"A thousand apologies for drawing you from your... engagement Your Grace, but indeed, a matter of paramount importance has arisen that concerns not only you, but everyone on this Council." the man called Varys replied gravely, taking a moment to survey not only the King, but everyone else at the table. Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and Lord of the Eyrie, mouth half-empty of teeth and wise as he was old. Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, with his immaculate dress, just greying hair and rat-like face. Grand Maester Pycelle, extensive chains clinking, skin wrinkled like old leather and chest-length beard snow white. Lord Renly Baratheon, youngest brother of Robert and Master of Laws, thick ebon locks framing his handsome face and just barely touching his black doublet slashed with yellow. Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, clean shaven and grey-haired, white-gold armour inlaid with the King's crown. And Lord Stannis Baratheon, older brother of Renly and Master of Ships, tall and sinewy, serious and unsmiling.

"Speak, Spymaster." Stannis ordered, direct as always.

Suppressing a frown, Varys complied. "My little birds have warned me of a foreign force landing on the shores of the Reach. I cannot speak for the amount of men comprising this force, but their fleet numbers at forty-five ships."

The mood in the room had been floating quite close to relaxed. With Varys' proclamation of an unknown element crawling onto the shores of Westeros, the mood immediately went into a steep dive until it was tense as a bowstring.

"Have your little birds said anything else?" Renly eventually asked.

"Indeed, and these whispers are most interesting, if I do say so myself." Varys said with a smile. "Not all of these men and women are... well, men and women. Among them are people with ears like knives, skin the colour of ash, green giants with tusks, and lizards and cats who walk on two legs and speak." He said. Stannis and Barristan said nothing, but their eyes betrayed their disbelief. Robert however, had no such restraint and scoffed loudly.

"Your birds must have been in their cups when they sent their warnings Varys! Lizards, cats and men with tusks!" He stopped to laugh, causing his large belly to shake grossly. Renly had a small frown on his face as he looked to the bald Spymaster.

"Whereabouts exactly have they dropped their anchors?" He asked.

"Just south of the Mander's mouth, less a day's ride from Brightwater Keep and Bandallon." Said Varys.

"Have the Lords Florent and Blackbar rallied their troops?" Asked Barristan.

"No."

"Why the hell not?" Demanded the knight.

"These foreigners have as of yet shown no ill intent. They have in fact done the entire Seven Kingdoms a service and crushed a fleet of Ironmen making their way to the Mander." Varys added. Barristan blinked once and while not completely satisfied, calmed down.

"Well good on them! Mayhaps these strangers are not all bad!" Robert declared with a laugh. Though he said nothing, Stannis agreed to a certain extent with his elder brother. He showed it through a slight slackening of his face into a more relaxed position. Jon Arryn was not so convinced.

"Because they laid low the Ironmen does not make them instantly good, Your Grace. They could be playing along as ignorant and peaceful explorers when the Southrons reacted positively to their actions." The Hand reasoned. Robert paid him a look, but said nothing. "What became of the battle Varys? Do you know?" He asked the Spymaster.

Varys gave a sly smile. "Of course, my Lord Hand. Some is believable, some is not. What is believable is that Dunstan Drumm now sits bleeding and broken in one of the Brightwater's cells, his pride, his progeny and his blade stripped away by the leader of these foreigners. A leader who I believe has made her way to Highgarden to charm the Tyrells." He would have continued, had Renly not interjected.

"'Her'? These foreigners take orders from a woman?" He asked.

"A woman, Lord Renly, who led the charge against the Ironmen and- if the dozens of witnesses are to be believed- destroyed half the fleet by breathing fire like the dragons of old." The look on Varys' face was uncertain. He was clearly skeptical of this report as well.

"Dozens, you say." Said Robert quietly as he stroked his beard. Pycelle eyed him queerly.

"You do not believe these... flights of fancy, do you Your Grace?" He asked dubiously.

"If you hear something once, it means nothing. If you hear something twice, it is a rumour. If you hear something three times, you ought to pay it heed." Robert said much to the interest of the Council.

"I did learn a thing or two from having you around, Varys." He added with a sardonic look. "If over a dozen persons can vouch for this woman breathing fire, we ought to assume that this is not just rumour-mongering. Are there any other such whispers?" He asked.

"There are accounts of many of the knights drinking poultices to cure even the most grievous of wounds, and using orbs of light to similar effects. Others say that some wielded magicks akin to the tales of the old warlocks: Throwing balls of fire, conjuring freezing winds, even casting bolts of lightning to lay low their foes." Varys supplied. Such facts rendered the council silent, only broken when Renly addressed the one member who had yet to say a word.

"You are quiet, Lord Baelish." The youngest Baratheon noted. "Have you anything to say?" Baelish blinked and raised his head to the council, an easy smile on his face.

"I was just pondering possible courses of action pertaining to these foreigners, Lord Renly." He answered slowly. "Were they to be charmed properly, they could become powerful allies to the Crown, maybe persuaded to share the secrets of their magick." He said while stroking his straggly beard.

"Yet you feel doubt about this." Stannis stated flatly.

"We do not know how these people and creatures think, or what they value and scorn." Baelish agreed by way of explanation. "Add to that the lack of any discernable motive for their voyage here and... well, I believe you are all able to see why I am concerned." He said.

"You suspect they came to conquer?" Barristan voiced.

"Unlikely. Even with their odd powers, they are far too few to take and hold even one major castle such as Highgarden. To attempt to storm it would be tantamount to suicide." Varys supplied.

"Perhaps they are refugees?" Arryn voiced his thoughts.

"We are wasting our breath with these theories. The only way to know is to ask them. Renly, Stannis, send word to your bannermen to be ready to ride to King's Landing at a moment's notice. I will send a raven to Highgarden and ask this leader of theirs to come to us, find out what she wants." Robert ordered. "Varys, let me know if your birds sing any other interesting songs. Jon, ready the City Watch, I am taking no chances with these people. That is all. This meeting is adjourned."

As one, the members of the Small Council rose and set off to do their duties. As they made off with purpose in their strides, different plans began to sprout and grow, each one with a different approach to how to deal with this new, completely unknown element in their midst.

* * *

"Come now sister, there is no way you cannot be at least a little excited about this new development. New and unknown people, working under a woman and coming to meet us."

"I am intrigued little brother, but you will forgive me for my lack of enthusiasm at the notion of such strangers marching straight into our midst."

This was the conversation spoken between the siblings Tyrion and Cersei Lannister. Both had taken note of odd happenings throughout King's Landing in the past few days. The most glaring among them was the Queen's husband exiting a meeting of the Small Council. For the entirety of his tenure, the number of times Robert had attended such meetings could have been counted on one hand with fingers to spare. While that fact remained unchanged as of now, it was still years since the last time he had deigned his presence important enough to sit down and speak with the men who kept the realm from collapsing. The patrols of the City Watch had risen by almost a half, and the men now traveled in fours instead of pairs. Cersei's informants had also stated that Lords Renly and Stannis had set out to return to Storm's End and Dragonstone, and Tyrion had learned that Robert had ordered a raven sent to Highgarden with urgency. Tyrion had beaten Cersei to inquiring as to what was about to happen, having gone to Jon Arryn, figuring that he would be the most candid about the subject. The result of their short chat had led to this moment, with the Queen listening intently to her younger brother's tale. For a moment she had said nothing, but poured the both of them a generous cup of wine and drank quietly.

"I suppose your interest is the best these people can hope for." Tyrion said more to himself. Cersei heard him anyways.

"And what do you mean by _that_?" She asked with a few drops of acid in her voice.

"I mean you have taken to our dear father's teachings with a little too much aplomb. Anyone is an enemy in your eyes until they are either brought under your thumb or lining their pockets with your money." He observed glibly.

"I mislike unknowns little brother, and these foreigners are a massive one. Slaying of the ironmen aside, how can we know that their intentions truly bode well for the Crown?" She countered. Tyrion had no response on his tongue, so he remained silent.

"Perhaps you are right." He conceded after a moment. "Perhaps their intentions do bode ill for us. But if so, why would they come to destroy with so few swords?" He wondered.

"Mayhaps they hope their leader's parlor tricks will carry them to victory." Cersei scoffed with a little smirk. Her tone prompted a curious look from her brother.

"You do not believe Varys' reports of their magicks?" He asked.

"Men will make all manner of outlandish claims when terror grips their hearts." She said dismissively. It was clear to Tyrion that Cersei would not believe these whispers of magic from Varys' birds. He however, held onto some inkling of belief. Thanks to his state, he rarely participated in the physical rigors expected of one of the sons of Tywin Lannister. Instead, he spent his days and nights in the cavernous library of Casterly Rock, studying every subject he could get his hands on. Alliances between houses, the history of Westeros, the reigns of kings past and present, even the mystic arts of Essos and the Shadow Lands. But what he had read about the magicks of the east painted a picture of something taught only to a few gifted individuals, either of high birth or born with the talent. On the other hand, these people seemed to have such knowledge readily available to anyone who wished to study it. These facts paled though, as Tyrion's thoughts turned to that of the leader of these foreigners. Not just a woman, but a woman who had fought her way to a position of power and earned the respect of her warriors. A woman who chose not to give orders from a throne lodged safely within a castle, but from the van of her army. The longer he considered the Spider's whispers, the more and more he wanted to meet this warrior woman.

He did not have to wait very long.

* * *

**One week later...**

"M'lord? M'lady? Your Excellency?"

Hippolyta flicked her eyes over to the young man who had just entered the salon. He could not have been older than thirteen. Or three-and-ten, as the Westerosi would have said. He was making a valiant effort, but even that could not mask the nervousness he clearly felt in the presence of the Lord of Highgarden, the Queen of Thorns and the Iron-Breaker. Though she needed no new titles, that particular one was starting to grow on her.

"Yes son?" Asked Mace with an expectantly-raised eyebrow.

"A raven has arrived for you m'lord, from King's Landing." Said the boy, holding out a roll of parchment. As Lord Tyrell accepted the letter, Hippolyta caught a quick glimpse of the red wax seal: A stag of some sort.

"It seems your tussle with the ironmen did not go unnoticed, Your Excellency." Mace said after a moment. "King Robert is asking the pleasure of an audience at your earliest convenience." He summarised as he allowed the parchment to roll shut.

Had she any less control, or imbibed any more wine, Hippolyta would have snorted. "Of course he is." She said with the smallest amount of amusement. Olenna must have heard the inflection of the Empress' voice, as a small grin graced her weathered face.

"T'would not be wise to keep the King waiting, Your Excellency." She advised. Hippolyta shook her head.

"Indeed it would not, Lady Olenna." She agreed. "It is a shame though, that it will not be convenient for me to ride to King's Landing until I have toured the Reach."

Mace snapped his head over to her. "You would risk the King's ire just to see more of the country? Forgive my audacity Your Excellency, but are you mad?" He balked.

"Not mad, Lord Tyrell, but bold enough to send a message: The Empire shan't bend to the will of any other so long as there is life in my breast." Hippolyta corrected. "I shall grant him his audience, but only when I see fit." She stood slowly. "Excuse me my Lord and Lady, but I believe it is time for me to continue my tour of the Reach. Your hospitality is much appreciated." She gave a short half-bow to Mace and Olenna.

"Where shall you go next?" Asked Olenna with a tilt of her head. The two of them plus Margaery had already discussed what her next move ought to be, but had neglected to inform Mace, giving him the impression that it was his word she was taking and further gaining his trust.

"I do not know Westeros like you. Lord Tyrell, have you any recommendations as to which house I should next entreat?" She asked with a well-honed look that was part expectant, part interest. Mace cleared his throat and stood with purpose. Ever since Hippolyta had given him the silver ring sitting on his right index finger the Lord of Highgarden had been much more active, and was often seen walking swiftly about the grounds of the castle. Margaery had made an offhand comment to Hippolyta that her father's vigor lasted well into the night, and while the maiden had blushed, the Empress' mouth had merely twitched in amusement.

"If you and your host continue northeast along the Mander, you will eventually reach its fork with the Cockleswent. From there if you cross the river, you will find Cider Hall, the seat of House Fossoway. I do not mean to sound biased, but I believe you would fare better charming Lord Jarrod. Not only shall I send word of your valour at the Mander, but my son Garlan is also married to a Fossoway, the Lady Leonette. He has told me one of your men... Ha'Drak I believe? Did I pronounce that correctly?" At Hippolyta's nod, he continued. "Has been teaching him how you Tamriel folk fight. He has enjoyed this learning immensely, and I am confident that he and Lady Leonette would speak approvingly of you." Mace dithered on. "But to continue, if you insist upon meeting the fellow lords of the Reach, making your way to Cider Hall would be a safe choice. From there, Lord Jarrod Fossoway can point you towards the next lord you wish to charm."

"... See that it is done. I thank you for your company and guidance Lord Tyrell and Lady Olenna, but I feel I have overstayed my welcome and I must venture on. My company and I will ride out your gates within the hour." Hippolyta announced as she rose, and with a short bow she made haste for the exit. True to her word, the party of ten exited the eastern gates of Highgarden within the hour, the Tyrell royalty and the Florent company bidding them farewell.

The leagues between Highgarden and Cider Hall were very unalike the stretch between the seat of the Tyrells and the Brightwater, the Mander's open floodplains permitting a swift ride along as apposed to the rolling hills and forests of the greater Reach. She would have preferred to ride out ahead, but every member of Hippolyta's company had vehemently opposed her. As it was, she was stuck trotting along in the middle of a loose circle of ten people. Stands-In-The-Shade, Flauvic and Ha'Drak led the company. Shade's steel-accented Legion armour shone in the sun, complimented by Merindene's red cloth and leather outfit, and Ha'Drak's ebony plate reminded Hippolyta uncomfortably of the black abyss from which Hermaeus Mora oft emerged. Ri'kari and Telina, both skilled in the magickal arts, flanked Hippolyta, Tonje and Fortas who acted as the nucleus of the company. At the rear were the archers, J'Karro and Darioth. The group of ten rode their well-provisioned horses for hours, stopping only to whet their appetites with hard bread, cheese and salted cuts of beef. As the sun touched the tree line, Hippolyta called for them to halt and make camp for the evening. With magick, they were able to erect three tents, enchanted in such a way that allowed them to be thrice as large on the inside. The four Legionnaires took up the first tent, Darioth, Telina, Ri'kari and the officers claimed the second, and Hippolyta remained alone in her private tent.

Afterwards, Tonje lit a small fire and the group of ten proceeded to quietly roast up cuts of beef, pass around water, mead and ale. It took more than a few minutes, but the Legionnaires began to notice something odd. Firstly, Ri'kari seemed less than interested in both the food and drink present. Shade had noticed her aversion after three quick glances at her, and only then did he observe she had only nibbled at her food, and he would bet his spear that she had barely let a sip of drink past her lips. Secondly, Telina had attacked her food with gusto befitting a wolf that had brought down its first kill in weeks. Thirdly - though Shade and J'Karro would admit that this was the least of the three happenings - Hippolyta continually refused the jug of mead whenever it made its way around to her. _She does not enjoy mead, maybe?_ Shade wondered. He got one answer when the Empress caught him staring.

"Noticed my aversion to mead, did you Stands-in-the-Shade?" She asked with a smirk in her voice. The Argonian coloured and was about to apologize when she pushed on. "An unfortunate affliction of mine: Nordic mead renders me violently ill." She said with a shake of her head.

"Do you suffer the same fate with any other foods Your Excellency?" Shade asked, unable to contain his curiosity. Though they continued to eat and drink, he knew that J'Karro, Ha'Drak and Flauvic were listening.

"I find your question inappropriate, Auxiliary." Fire-Eater said coolly. Hippolyta raised her hand.

"Peace General, curiosity is not, nor has it ever been forbidden among my subjects." She assured. Tonje deflated with a nod at her sovereign. "Yet why do you ask, Stands? Should I worry about an attempt to dethrone me in the future?" She asked in a deadpan tone. Shade's eyes widened in panic.

"N-No Your Excellency! I never meant to imply-" His words died in his throat as Hippolyta laughed musically.

"Children these days, unable to see a joke for what it is!" She said with a shake of her head. To the side, Flauvic Merindene hid a smile behind the wineskin he held. Lighthearted banter flittered about for the rest of their dinner, even the monosyllabic Ha'Drak joining in on the conversation. As the sun dipped below the horizon some time later, Hippolyta rose with purpose and a pointed look at Telina and Ri'kari. The advisors rose as well and made for their tent. The Legionnaires and Darioth watched them go, six with puzzled expressions and one with interest.

"Have you an idea what they are doing Darioth?" Flauvic asked. The Bosmer looked over at him and grinned.

"Indeed, and you should consider yourselves lucky: Few people have seen Her Excellency in combat with such skilled partners, and fewer still live to tell the tale." He said as the three women re-emerged in loose shirts with leather vests and simple pants. Hippolyta carried her dragon bone blade, Ri'kari had her staff resting over her shoulders, and Telina was toting Dawnbreaker, the yellow light from the crossguard making their fire seem dim. The two swords had a faint red glow about them, characteristic of having their enchantments suppressed. The Redguard and Dunmer stood aside each other, facing the Altmer, and readied their weapons. Ri'kari descended into a wide stance and held her glass spear forward, the aqua-green tip pointed at Hippolyta's head. Telina unsheathed Dawnbreaker with a ringing note, turning to the side with her feet at shoulder width, her Daedric blade held in a two-handed mid-guard. Hippolyta rolled her blade into a one-handed low guard as she faced her two partners head on, her left arm tucked behind her back.

"Should they not be using practice blades for this?" Asked J'Karro. From her place, Hippolyta shook her head.

"There is so much more incentive to push oneself if the risk of dismemberment is real." She answered before she began to slowly advance on a diagonal. As soon as she was in range, Ri'kari opened her assault with a thrust of her spear. With a lightning-quick flick of her wrist, Hippolyta parried the attack and fluidly transitioned into a block, stopping Telina's slash. The Legionnaires were intrigued immediately, as the Dunmer had used both hands for her strike, but the Empress had stopped the blade cold with one hand. A dragon bone bastard sword was by no definition light either. It was highly impractical for many races to wield such heavy weapons, as they did not have the necessary musculature required to swing the bone blades, axes or cudgels fast enough to defend themselves or deliver effective blows. For an Altmer - widely considered one of the lowest species in terms of brute strength - to swing a weapon heavier than one of Daedric origin with such ease hinted at an astonishing amount of strength for one of her frame.

With a twisting sidestep, Hippolyta gracefully spun away from Telina and brought Freedom into a rising vertical slash, batting Ri'kari's twirling spear strike away from her. She quickly flicked her wrist and sent a backhanded cut towards Telina, who easily pushed the light blow away, and quickly ducked under a sweep from Ri'kari. Their game of testing each other's defenses went on for another few moments before the Dunmer and the Redguard began to intensify their assault. It was in this intensification of combat where the observers bore witness to Hippolyta's style. Each of her moves was enacted in such a way that required her to move her blade as little as possible, often simply holding it at an angle and causing an incoming attack to slide right off. She followed such manoeuvres with jabs and cuts as fast as a striking sabre cat, which scored a number of small hits on her opponents. She was not stomping around either, as many a swordsman are wont to do. She treaded lightly, her footwork nearly as complicated as a runic array, but with the advantage of allowing her to often completely sidestep an attack. In many instances, she appeared to be dancing.

But for all her fancy footwork and swordplay, the observers quickly noticed that Hippolyta did not ever wind up and swing at Telina or Ri'kari. It made a certain amount of sense; her form seemed to require a great deal of balance, and even a small upset of that equilibrium could spell disaster when facing such skilled opponents. While many of the hits she scored were at debilitating points on Telina and Ri'kari's bodies, such as their joints and muscle bundles which slowed them down and limited their angles of attack, they were few and far between. As the skirmish wore on, Hippolyta began to show signs of fatigue. Her strikes came a little slower, her footwork became sluggish, and more of her blocks and parries proved ineffective against Telina's powerful strokes and Ri'kari's wide slashes.

The match began to end as Hippolyta sent a slash towards Ri'kari. The Redguard parried the blow and twisted Freedom, wresting the blade from Hippolyta's grasp before bringing the butt of her spear forward and swatting the Empress in the temple. While she was knocked off kilter, Hippolyta still caught the thrust from Telina and wrenched the Dunmer's arm up to block the overhead slash from Ri'kari. Hippolyta lashed out with a kick to Ri'kari's stomach, knocking her back, and brought her knee up into Telina's chest. All the air went out of Telina, but she caught Hippolyta's knee as it came up again, and with a shout she drove all of her mass into the Empress, throwing them both to the ground. She attempted to drive her fist into Hippolyta's face, but the Empress jerked her body to the side to avoid the blow, and brought her right arm up to elbow Telina in the side of the head. The force behind the strike made the Dunmer lurch just enough for Hippolyta to roll out from under her and avoid Ri'kari's stab at the ground. The observers were surprised at the agility their Empress continued to display despite the toll her prolonged battle had taken on her. But it was not enough even as she caught the shaft of the spear and yanked, Ri'kari used Hippolyta's move to her advantage by channeling the forward momentum into a shoulder charge. All the air went out of Hippolyta as she was shoved back. Doggedly, she drove her elbows into Ri'kari's back enough to make her stop. Hippolyta grabbed the back of Ri'kari's vest to yank her up and headbutted the Redguard in the face hard enough for the onlookers to hear a _crack_. Ri'kari stumbled back with a quiet cry of pain, and did not react in time to catch Hippolyta's backfist. She whipped her arm back and smacked Telina on the ear, a highly sensitive point on any mer, stopping her dead as she clutched her traumatized auricle. Hippolyta grunted as she attempted a kick, but Ri'kari had recovered enough to catch the Empress' leg and pull her forward. As Hippolyta was forced into the splits, she hissed quietly and caught a kick to the side of her head by Telina. She went down hard and for the first time, groaned audibly. She swatted the ground twice, tapping out of the match before lighting her hand up with Restoration magick. Seconds ticked by before she slowly got to her feet and swiped her hand along her sweat-stained brow. As she dragged her hand across her ear, it came off red.

"You hit extremely hard for an old crone, Telina." Hippolyta observed as she shook the blood off her hand. Merindene let a small snort pass his perpetual smirk as the snarks and catty comments began.

"And you lost to this old crone, little girl." Ri'kari rebutted quietly, surprising the younger Legionnaires. Her voice was barely louder than a whisper and only slightly warmer than the waters off the coast of Winterhold. The gravity of the situation immediately set back in: Hippolyta, while still in possession of her skills, was rusty enough that she could not win in a fair fight against her advisors. That thought brought a frown to Hippolyta's face as she returned to her spot by the dying embers, which she coaxed to life with a few extra pieces of kindling.

"This one has not seen swordplay quite so beautiful before, Your Excellency." said J'karro candidly. "From whom did you learn it?"

"Myself." Hippolyta answered. "It is a style I have developed and refined over the years. Flauvic, you recognise some of my technique as being borrowed from Breton fencers, yes?" She asked. All eyes were on the Breton.

"Yes, now that I reflect." Flauvic admitted. "Your attacks and methods of deflection were familiar to me, though less... fluid, if I may be so bold to say." The smirk dropped from his face for but a moment as he finished. Hippolyta shrugged.

"I have no doubt of that. A bastard sword is much harder to swing than a _gladio_." Hippolyta agreed, pointing at the long, thin blade Flauvic had laid beside him. "My style has no official name in the Imperial Canon of Blade Forms, because there are so few people who practice it. I however, call it 'The Dancer's Form'. Fluidity, precision and efficiency of movement are the three core tenets that must be mastered to be proficient at the Dancer's Form. Fluidity, to move about one's foes and transition from defense to offense; precision, to land strikes on critical areas of weakness and deflect attacks; and efficiency, to conserve one's energy and wear down the opposition before landing a killing stroke." She elaborated in a voice that seemed to be from someone losing themselves to thought.

"What necessitated its invention?" Asked Fire-Eater.

Hippolyta did not answer for a moment. "... For many years I was a wanderer, learning whatever ways to swing a sword I could. For a time, that was enough. I simply had to be faster than whoever was swinging back at me. As the years went by though, I began to meet foes who proved time and time again that speed and strength count for little without technique. The Thalmor especially were an example of this. They practiced a form specially designed to weather the ferocity of Nordic and Orcish swordsmen, among others, and dispatch them often with one stroke. To that end, I began to seek out more eccentric sellswords and duelists, beseeching them to teach me. The tips and tricks afforded to me by them became the foundation for the birth of the Dancer's Form. I continued to build on those techniques, and I completed the style some decades after my inauguration." She paused. "It has continued to be an excellent deterrent to those who would see me dethroned, decapitated, or both." She conceded lightly.

"The Dancer's Form seems to take a great deal of concentration to use." Ha'Drak observed.

"You are correct, Ha'Drak. A flaw in the style, unfortunately. I designed it with the assumption that I would only be facing a single opponent at a time, but I made sure to alter certain facets to allow for engaging multiple foes. Doing so is ill-advised however, as one's attention must be split amongst their targets. Face too many and you will become sloppy, disoriented, open for attack. But if you maintain your situational awareness and push your senses and instincts to their limits, you can partially do away with this limitation." She stopped to pour a splash of water on her sweat-stained face. "At the height of my prowess I could weather the assault of a cohort of Legion soldiers with naught but my sword and my magick, and likely slay half of them before falling. Now look at me," she said with a derisive snort. "Rusted to Oblivion and back again."

The statement should have been uttered with bitterness, but the tone of Hippolyta's voice was tinged with amusement. Fortas tilted his head.

"You seem unusually easy with this revelation, Your Excellency." He stated.

"I am quite far from being easy with my limitations, Fortas. I am simply better at hiding it than most people. What you perceive as my 'easiness' with the situation is truly nostalgia. I am looking back to simpler times when I was but a maiden. A time when I was constantly fighting for my life - even before Alduin's reemergence - as my insurgents and I cut strips from the Aldmeri Dominion's war machine and retreating into the shadows. A time when I was fueled solely by my rage and my lust for revenge, and had but one goal. Now I cannot be so direct." She sighed and took another sip of water.

"Those were good days; days I've wished innumerably were those we still live in. Alas, they are naught but warm memories anymore. Reveling in them has kept me from spiraling into darkness over my life, and making new ones has made it easier. I would suggest that all of you do the same." She said as she looked around at her compatriots. "Remember the moments you are most fond of in life. Think on your family, your lovers, your greatest achievements. Let the memories of them bring you comfort and give you strength, so that you might fight to make new memories once we stop the White Death, banish this Daedric Prince back to Oblivion, and return home." Hippolyta finished her speech and looked around at her nine companions. While difficult to see in the low light of the dying fire, there was no mistaking the straightened posture and confident gleam in their eyes. The moment ended when Stands-in-the-Shade spoke again.

"Begging your pardon Your Excellency, but when you say insurgents, you are referring to the Free Army of Tamriel you once commanded, yes?" He asked uncertainly.

"Again, astute of you, young one. But as many a scribe will tell you, history does not depend on who is right or wrong, but on who was alive to tell the story. The Free Army of Tamriel was indeed my creation, but our cause was not always noble. In it's infancy, it was something... malevolent. Something I was, and still am not proud of. But that is a story for another day. For now, we must rest. The road ahead is long and dark, and wrought with terrors that could freeze the blood of even the boldest of dragons. But together, we will carry the fires of victory and end their tyranny." She finished as she rose, her entourage following suit. Their campfire was extinguished, and all ten Tamrielics drifted off to sleep, with thoughts of the days to come dominating their thoughts.

* * *

**So... yeah. Sorry about the wait. Please,**

**1) Tell me whether or not you liked this chapter**

**2) Tell me what you SPECIFICALLY liked about this chapter**

**3) Tell me what you DIDN'T like about this chapter**

**4) Recommend a suitable improvement**

**DR**


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